


Unpin Your Butterflies

by ProseApothecary



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Claustrophobia, Disability, Drinking, Eventual Happy Ending, Everyone lives, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt and comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Therapy, Wheelchairs, doctors and hospitals, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 28,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24981103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: When they were kids, Stan had told him all about how birds could sense oncoming disaster, much more acutely than humans. Eddie can do it too. He’s not sure if it’s pity, or concern, or sympathy that’s behind the furrows in his friends’ brows and the downturn of their lips (and after his mother, he’s not convinced that there’s a difference). But he picks up on it immediately, files it away as evidence thatyou were right. You’re not ok. Prepare for disaster.Then there’s Richie. Richie somehow knows this about him, the way Richie seems to know hundreds of things about Eddie that Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever said out loud.So Richie is just. Relentlessly upbeat. Buys him a shirt that saysLeggy Brunette, 2 days after the doctors let him know that he might never walk again.Lets Eddie call him an insensitive asshole, because everyone is being so gentle and Eddie really wants an excuse to be fucking angry, and he knows Richie is the only one who won’t take it personally or tear up at his plight.Distracts him, until Eddie is actually ready to start to process things.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Myra Kaspbrak divorce, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 97
Kudos: 217





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Nara by Alt-J.
> 
> Disclaimer time!: This is a story of Eddie adjusting to being in a wheelchair, rather than it being an entrenched part of his life. As someone who tends to catastrophise, he's going to struggle with it. (And eventually, find ways of handling it.)
> 
> I did try to do some research, but there's a limited amount you can extrapolate about the characteristics of alien clown injuries.

Eddie doesn’t wish he was dead.

But maybe he wants to live in the moment just before.

A heroic sacrifice making up for everything that came before. Richie’s hand not-quite holding him together. Eddie’s pretty sure Richie had never looked at him for that long before. Like Eddie would disappear if he glanced away. Maybe he was just trying to remember what he looked like, remember enough for the next 50 years.

40, maybe. He’s pretty sure Richie doesn’t eat anything green.

Eddie didn’t have to eat anything green. He’d been so careful, and it wouldn’t make a difference. It was funny that he could’ve smoked six packs a day and fucked every cute stranger at a club and eaten nothing but bear claws from the grocer’s down the street, and instead he had Myra and kale.

It was funny that even while Eddie was imagining this brief, consequence-free life, he still couldn’t imagine being brave enough to let the soon-to-be skeleton out of the closet. Not fearing rejection so much as reciprocation. Why draw futures in the sand, when the tide’s a metre out?

Still, he tried for their version. That Richie could take however he wanted to. However helped.

It was funny, that if anyone asked Richie what Eddie’s last words were, he would have to say _I fucked your mum_.

When Eddie wakes up, it’s to a shitty romcom on TV, an uncomfortable slab and Richie, who only beams at him for 2 seconds before announcing that he’s got to tell the rest of the Losers, and scrambling out. It’s to the prospect of calling Myra, and going back to Regular Life and the realisation that _Guys? I can’t feel my legs_.

And nothing’s funny anymore.

Everyone helps as best they can. Bev is decisively sweet. You don’t think she’s ordering you around, yet before you know it you’ve finished the pudding cup you said you only wanted half of. Mike knows what it’s like to be stuck somewhere, brings huge piles of _(dusty)_ books for him and teaches him an odd form of meditation that Eddie is fairly sure originated in a cult. Bill reads out passive-aggressive comments from his publisher until Eddie’s dying of laughter and brings a copy of his own book, hot off the presses ( _I can’t promise it’s better than Mike’s, but it is less dusty)._ Stan plays a series of increasingly complex and decreasingly exciting card games with him. Ben, if he’s being honest, just has to give his supermodel smile and Eddie feels at least 30% healed.

When they were kids, Stan had told him all about how birds could sense oncoming disaster, much more acutely than humans. Eddie can do it too. He’s not sure if it’s pity, or concern, or sympathy that’s behind the furrows in his friends’ brows and the downturn of their lips (and after his mother, he’s not convinced that there’s a difference). But he picks up on it immediately, files it away as evidence that _you were right. You’re not ok. Prepare for disaster._

Then there’s Richie. Richie somehow knows this about him, the way Richie seems to know hundreds of things about Eddie that Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever said out loud.

So Richie is just. Relentlessly upbeat. Buys him a shirt that says _Leggy Brunette,_ 2 days after the doctors let him know that he might never walk again.

Lets Eddie call him an insensitive asshole, because everyone is being so gentle and Eddie really wants an excuse to be fucking angry, and he knows Richie is the only one who won’t take it personally or tear up at his plight.

Distracts him, until Eddie is actually ready to start to process things.

“Ben got Bev. Or maybe Bev got Ben. You’re thinking about writing your own material. Bill got inspiration. Mike got out of Derry. Stan just got out of the fucking house, which, honestly, is the biggest miracle of them all. _I_ got a divorce-” _and a re-ignited crush on my best friend_ “-and a fucking wheelchair.”

“I think it’s karma,” Richie says thoughtfully. His chair is pushed right up against the hospital bed. Eddie could lay a hand on his knee if he moved a couple inches. He doesn’t.

“You always made me carry you around when we were kids,” he continues. “Careful what you wish for, I guess.”

Eddie gapes at him. “You always picked me up! And you wouldn’t put me down until I screamed at you!”

Richie frowns, mouth quirking up. “That’s not how I remember it.”

“I hate you,” Eddie says. “I can’t believe they let you visit me. You’re probably impeding my recovery by heightening my blood pressure.”

“I’m actually here as part of your treatment. Told them a Clown Doctor wouldn’t go over too well, so they just hired a funny motherfucker instead.”

“I hope you’re getting minimum wage,” Eddie says blithely.

“I told ‘em, ‘Eddie’s my friend, keep your dirty money. Just give me full access to the medicine cabinet.’”

“There’s no way you know which pills get you high. You’d probably just end up eating 70 gummy vitamins.”

“Eddie,” Richie says, looking at him sombrely. “That’s the fucking goal.”

Eddie stares at him for a second before he breaks with a snort.

“Dumbass,” he says, still smiling.

Richie smiles back. Even with his mouth shut, it makes his dumb fucking accordion of a face fold up into laughter lines.

It’s getting more difficult to look at his smiles.

They remind him, in a roundabout way, of Myra.

She had a love of motivational quotes, most of which made Eddie irrationally angry. But there was one she posted to her Facebook page that always stuck in his head, one that he would recite to himself. _Love is a choice you make every day._ It explained why it was so difficult. He wasn’t trying hard enough – to appreciate Myra’s quirks, to forgive her, to compromise, to touch her.

When he sees Richie smile, feels his sternum ache, he knows it’s not a choice. He knows, because if someone had given him the choice, he would say _no fucking thank you._

“Don’t let me go back home,” he says, suddenly, and somewhat by accident. “I think-I think if she starts taking care of me, I’m gonna convince myself I need it.”

Richie’s face freezes for a second. “Ok. You don’t have to-you know you can stay with me, Eds.”

“We have an investment property,” Eddie says immediately.

Richie gives him a half-smile. “Course you do. You responsible adult.”

“It’s pretty accessible, and I have enough saved up to hire someone, so. So I can probably stay there for now.”

Richie huffs a laugh. “Yeah, no, I-I got that.” He gives another smile. Laughter lines don’t come into it.

Eddie feels like maybe he should explain, abolish the twinge in his eyes, but he doesn’t want to indict himself that easily. Doesn’t want to explain, s _o maybe I don’t want you to be the first-hand witness to my clumsy introduction to life in a wheelchair. Maybe I like the version of me that saved you from the deadlights. Maybe it seems like you liked that Eddie as well. In the instant before clown claws royally fucked everything up, you looked up, and-_

“You need anything, you call me, yeah?” Richie says.

_-for once it seemed like needing went both ways._


	2. Chapter 2

Eddie hadn’t thought to remove Myra as his emergency contact. So she turns up within a few days of him waking up. He can’t decide if he’s disappointed or relieved that she arrives at one of the rare times Richie isn’t sitting by him.

“ _Eddie._ ” Her voice is hushed as she sits next to Eddie’s bed, covering his hands with hers. _“What happened?_ ”

Eddie wonders whether he’d be in the same state if the roles were reversed.

He abruptly stops wondering, bathed in guilt.

“Uh. A house fell on me.”

Myra lets out a frightened squeak, and Eddie winces as he realises perhaps that wasn’t the most tactful way of breaking it. Prolonged exposure to the Losers has really fucked with his level of bluntness. He needs to ease back into the way he and Myra talk to each other, couching everything.

“It’s ok,” he says as comfortingly as possible. “I’m ok.”

Myra stares at him, her hands clenching over his. “They told me you can’t _walk_ ¸ Eddie.”

_Ah._ “Well, ‘ok’ might have been an overstatement. But, you know. I don’t want you to worry about me.”

Myra at least stops being concerned long enough to give him a deeply confused look.

_Yeah, I don’t know what I’m doing either._

“Eddie,” she says. “It’s my job to worry about you.” She sighs. “We’ll need to hire a team to come home with us, obviously. Physicians and trainers and-”

“Myra. I’m not coming home.”

“Don’t _say_ that. We’ve been training to deal with hospital-acquired infections for years. You’re gonna make it out of here alive, I promise. No matter how many times you catch pneumonia.”

“No,” Eddie re-attempts, “I mean. I think-I _know_ I want a divorce.”

She stares at him for a few seconds. “Which pain meds are you on? Oxycodone? Morphine?”

Eddie sighs. “It’s not the meds.” He’s fairly sure that Myra won’t try to trap him inside their home, _Whatever Happened to Baby Jane_ style, but he’s a little concerned that he can’t go any higher than _fairly sure._

Tears fill her eyes, and the guilt returns. When they met, Eddie clung onto her swimming pool eyes, something to add to the list of _Things I like about her_. Whenever he suspected they were full of crocodile tears, they twisted into wading pools, nothing behind them. Now, with as much distance as he thinks he’s ever gonna get, he thinks the truth is somewhere in between. That she’s unhappy, that Eddie’s at least part of the reason why, but they can’t say that, have to divert the stream of tears into rivulets of _work and family and you not finishing your packed lunch, and facing the New York chill without a jacket and being half an hour late._

“Eddie. We’re the only ones who understand each other.” She lowers her voice. “We’re the only ones who are healthy. Clean.”

_I think there’s still sewer juice under my nails,_ Eddie almost says. But he doesn’t want to drop that pipe bomb into the conversation. “I’m not the only man with personal hygiene in New York.”

She gives him such a sceptical look that Eddie almost laughs. He sobers up when a tear track slopes down her nose, the warning pebble of an avalanche.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For this and the last 5 years. But this isn’t good for either of us. I think. I think you need to find my opposite, and choose him.”

_Do what I can’t._

Once Eddie’s out of hospital, he finds solace in research.

He researches the probabilities of recovery from nerve damage and the likelihood of wheelchairs breaking apart in the middle of supermarkets and costs of carers and physios and which shops have ramps but not: _hey, how the fuck do you greet your friends?_

Right now, he really wishes he’d looked into it. The lucky seven all hover in the foyer of the restaurant that they’re pretending they picked for its _beautiful ambience_ , not just because it happened to be closest to Eddie’s house. He waves awkwardly, while the rest of them exchange hugs. He’s starting to realise how much people touch, in everyday life, and how much of that stops when you’re not at eye-level.

_You were never at eye-level,_ he hears in Richie’s voice.

And then Beverly, without a moment’s hesitation, sits on Eddie’s knees and pulls him into a hug.

He hears Richie suck in air through his teeth, and say, “Listen, Benji, you two had a good run. You can’t blame a girl for moving on to greener pastures.”

_Please. Richie thinks Ben’s pastures are fucking verdant._

Eddie gives a grateful smile to Bev as she stands up. At least until she turns to Richie, and says, “Just warming him up for you.”

Richie gives her an indecipherable look, one that turns into an unguarded smile as soon as he sees Eddie’s look of trepidation.

He knows Richie’s considering it, launching himself onto Eddie’s wheelchair and possibly breaking it in the process. Eddie’s all ready to say what he’s supposed to say, _Get your gangly fucking Gumby body off me_ , when he realises, with something approaching disappointment, that the rest of them are moving on, heading to their table.

He turns to follow them, and feels Richie’s rough fingers thoroughly fucking up his hair on the way. Igniting several nerve endings in the process.

Every memory he has of the two of them as children comes back to a frankly embarrassing array of intimacy-adjacent attacks on each other. Tackles, wrestling, sticking his socked feet in Richie’s face, and the odd, sincere hug. Now he gets 3 fingers mussing up his hair and counts himself lucky.

They drag a few tables together and order, Richie already tearing into the bread basket because he’s incapable of fasting for more than 6 minutes at a time.

Eddie had put off the first post-Derry meeting of the Lucky Seven for a long time. Until it became clear that they weren’t going to do it without him.

It was easy to make excuses, when he was busy all the time, but that wasn’t the _reason_. Some part of him is holding onto the idea that he might walk again, and somehow it feels like the more people witness him, the more its woven into his identity.

But now that he’s here, he feels a little different. He thinks of Richie at the Jade of the Orient, looking a little like he’d been put through a washing machine, but with all the freshness that entails. _I feel very relieved to be here._

Eddie finds himself looking to him, analysing his expression. It’s been a few weeks since he outed himself on Twitter ( _40 years of trying to look like a straight guy, and apparently I landed square in ‘lesbian’_ ), and then slightly more definitively onstage.

Not that Eddie was there for that.

He might’ve gone, if he’d known, but he was pretty busy staring at the ceiling and wondering when it would stop feeling like he still had a gaping hole in his guts, so. Maybe not.

They haven’t talked about it. Eddie has a distant feeling that they should have, but he was waiting for Richie to bring it up, and now it’s far too late for either of them to mention it.

He’d sort of hoped Richie would tell him before he told all of New York. But he hoped for a lot of things.

Eddie's drawn from his thoughts as conversations start sparking up.

Bev and Ben are in the process of adopting _and_ planning a wedding. Which means they’re legally required to give each other pining looks even though they’re very much together. Stan assures everyone that he’s living the same old boring picket-white-fence life in a way that makes it very clear he would murder anyone who tried to take it away from him. Bill’s writing more than ever, replete with inspiration. Mike’s just come back from Barbados, replete with little plastic souvenirs that everyone overenthusiastically thanks him for.

Bill jokingly says, “Invite me next time,” and Mike, less jokingly, says, “Only if you don’t bring your laptop.”

Bill grins in the brief moment of silence, until Richie says, “ _I’d_ love to go to Barbados.”

_Me too_ , thinks Eddie, rapidly followed by _15% of wheelchairs get lost or damaged by airlines_ , rapidly followed by _nevermind._

“So, Eds.” His thoughts of crushed spokes are interrupted. “What’s it like being even shorter?”

Eddie meets Richie’s gaze. His head’s propped up on his hand, turned towards Eddie. Full attention. Eddie’s a sucker for full attention, or at least he used to be. Now it all depends on the type.

“You know that people don’t actually shrink when they sit down, right?”

“Shit,” Richie says, looking to the other Losers. “Did you guys know this?” And Eddie can’t help but smile a little, unforced for the first time in an hour.

There are a couple of slightly uncomfortable laughs from the other Losers.

“Seriously, Eddie,” Bill asks with his big earnest eyes, “how’s everything?”

He’s pretty sure Bill and Richie feel the most responsible for what happened. He doesn’t want to make it worse, so he says, “Good. It’s good.” _Do you want to hear about the divorce paperwork, the healthcare paperwork, the moving-to-a-new-house paperwork?_

There’s an expectant pause, so he adds,

“Hired someone to help out.” He can’t make himself say _carer_ yet, it makes him feel 80. “Cassie. She’s sort of new to this, but uh, she’s nice.” She’s not that nice. She’s kind of blunt and inappropriate. Three guesses for who she reminds Eddie of.

“Is she hot?” Richie asks, right on cue.

“No,” says Eddie.

“Oof. Harsh,” says Richie, and Eddie really misses being able to kick him under the table.

“Shut up. You know what I mean. She’s seen me naked, I’m not about to subject her to flirting.”

“Lucky gal,” Richie says, and immediately knocks back his wine glass.

He’s doing that a lot lately. Making his usual jokes on autopilot, then visibly panicking, like he thinks they’re going to be misinterpreted, now that he’s out.

Not that Eddie can blame him. He feels the same thing keeping him from telling the Losers. The notion that as soon as they know, they’ll look a little closer at the 13 year-old who couldn’t step out of Richie’s personal space for one second and the 40 year old who can’t stop bickering with him.

Which didn’t seem like such a bad thing when Richie dropped from the deadlights, the crash of his body jolting Eddie’s feelings into sharp focus. When he thought that maybe if Richie took a closer look, they’d never be distant again.

It had felt possible in Derry, when it was just the seven of them against the world. Now they’re back to their old lives. Richie spends his Friday nights at celebrity parties in Santa Monica. And Eddie spends them taking half an hour to navigate the accessible route out of his office.

He’s a pain to take on tour, a pain to take to events, a pain to take care of, and he feels a bone-deep certainty that he can’t take a rejection right now, let alone the pity that would come along with it.

So he focusses on the fact that his friends seem happy, seem to have their shit together. Tries to absorb it through osmosis. Focusses on Richie thumping the table when he laughs, sending tremors through the plates and glasses and Eddie.

He can live on this, even if it feels a little like trying to sate yourself on sugar-water. Getting a little hungrier with every sip.


	3. Chapter 3

Myra is generous about splitting assets. She’s worried about him living with a disability, and Eddie’s pretty sure that she also thinks he’s actually lost his mind.

She cares about him, for all her faults. There’s a moment in his lawyer’s office, when she’s looking at him, sadly but sympathetically, and Eddie’s brain tells him _you’re making a mistake. Your friends are scattered across America. You think you can rely on them?_

Moments like these, he thinks about Richie’s stand-up. Not the current stuff, that’s real and _God forbid_ , kind of astute. The old material, about falling asleep while your girlfriend talks about her day, forgetting birthdays and anniversaries and wishing you could have a fucking second alone. Eddie used to watch, even though it made him angry. Angry that he kept watching it when it wasn’t funny. Angry that he could somehow tell it didn’t ring as true for Richie as it did for him. Angry that he would think _if you’re so unhappy, why don’t you leave_ , and then Richie would spit one of Eddie’s thoughts at the screen, verbatim, and sheepishness would mingle with irritation.

Eddie can’t imagine being alone can feel any lonelier.

So he goes through with it.

When he leaves his lawyer’s office for ( _fingers crossed)_ the last time, he feels lost. There’s no one there to tell, and not much that Eddie wants to do. He goes to the park. It’s not exciting, but it is peaceful, and that’s pretty much where Eddie’s been setting his expectations lately.

20 minutes pass, and, watching the ducks, he sends a message to the Loser group text.

_Divorce finalised. I’m keeping the investment property._

The chat lights up with congratulations and questions that Eddie answers as best he can.

5 minutes later, _Shoop_ starts emanating from his phone. He looks at the caller ID.

“Hey douchebag,” he says, swiping up to take the call. “When did you change my ringtone?”

Richie snickers, and says, “You slept a _lot_ in hospital. Real layabout.”

“Asshole. What if you called in the middle of my divorce proceedings?”

“Then you’d still be married,” Richie says. “You think she’s gonna drop a Pepahead?”

A smile tugs at Eddie’s mouth. “This is blatant Salt erasure.”

Richie barks a laugh, more than it deserves. He laughs whenever Eddie goes along with a joke, fucking thrilled about it, every time. And Eddie feels it in his cheeks and his chest and his stomach, every time.

“Eds. How are you celebrating?”

“I’m watching ducks,” Eddie says flatly.

“Sorry, I think our call got intercepted by a really boring NSA agent. How did you say you were celebrating?”

“What the fuck do you suggest, asshole? Clubbing isn’t fun at the best of times, you try it when you’re in a chair. I don’t know anyone here, I’m on a bunch of different medications that do not mix well with alcohol-”

“I’ll come over.”

“…What do you mean, you’ll ‘come over’? You’re at least an hour away.”

“A whole hour,” Richie sighs. “Guess we’ll never meet again.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “I’m just _saying_ , you don’t have to drop all your plans in the middle of the day-”

“I don’t have plans,” says Richie, “When do I have plans? Listen, if you really don’t want me to come, now’s the time to say, because I’m already packing my He-Man PJs.”

Eddie feels the wasp-hum of dread.

He’s seen Richie since the hospital, but not alone.

There’s something difficult about being seen lately. And the fall is hardest when it comes to Richie. Eddie’s seen him look at Ben and every other guy who could conceivably fireman-carry him around New York. He knows his type. And it’s not guys in wheelchairs.

But Eddie doesn’t voice any of this, so Richie’s voice comes over the phone, cheeriness sounding a little strained.

“So it’s settled! I’ll see you in an hour.”

Eddie spends a long time:

  1. Getting home
  2. Vacillating over whether to tell Cassie to take the night off



He’s been trying to be as independent as possible, but it’s early days, and he still needs help with a lot of day-to-day tasks. Help that he doesn’t really want to ask Richie for.

Besides, it’s probably normal for Richie to meet her _._

_Right? Is that a thing? Meet the carer?_

_He’s so wildly unequipped for this._

He heads into the bedroom, where Cassie’s making a valiant attempt to fit the slightly-too-small bedsheets over Eddie’s mattress, whilst trying to shake her fringe out of her eyes every three seconds.

He hovers.

“A friend will be coming over in a couple hours,” he says, when he catches her eye. “If, uh, that’s ok?”

“Course it’s ok. It’s your house, Eddie,” she says. _She’s not Myra. She’s not Myra, and she’s not your mother._ “Do you want me to stick around?”

“Yeah, um, I think that would be good.”

“You want to tell me a little bit about this friend? So I can realistically be all _Oh my God, Eddie’s told me so much about you_?”

“Please don’t. He’d enjoy that so much.” Eddie considers the fact that she might be a comedy nerd. “But his name’s Richie Tozier. He’s uh, done some stand-up?”

“Never heard of him, but ok.”

“Please do tell him _that_.” Eddie says, and she grins at him.

Cassie’s still in the bedroom when the overly intricate knock on the door arrives, so Eddie’s the one to greet Richie. He’s in a backpack, shabby jeans and a Hawaiian shirt, looking like an underfunded 19 year-old on their gap year.

It’s brighter, and lighter, than anything he wore in Derry.

Richie beams at him and hands over a shopping bag. “I know you said no alcohol for a little while, but I didn’t know the policy on Twinkies.”

“The policy is that they’re disgusting,” Eddie says. “But, uh, thanks.” He goes to put them on the dining table, then hovers awkwardly. “Sorry, the place is kind of a mess, I haven’t been able to clean as much.”

“Yeah,” Richie says dryly, looking around the apartment which, Eddie imagines, probably looks better than Richie’s. “Horrifying.”

“I mean. The fans are covered in cobwebs,” he says, wondering who this weird awkward monster is who’s taken over his body. He’s never this way with Richie.

Richie tilts his head, bemused. “Do you want me to clean the fans? Is this your weird passive way of asking me to clean the fans?”

“No!” Eddie protests, then gives it serious thought. “I mean…”

“Eddie Kaspbrak, asking _me_ to clean something,” Richie says, standing on a chair, feather-dusting the fan blades. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“It’s a sign of the apocalypse,” Eddie agrees.

“Oh!” he hears from the entranceway to the living room. “Finally, we find someone who can reach the fans.”

For a second, Eddie truly thinks Richie is about to topple off the chair. He panics and moves closer, but Richie rights himself again.

“Hi,” he says, smiling too big. “You must be Eddie’s…”

“Cassie,” Eddie says quickly. “This is Cassie.”

“Oh,” Richie says, realisation dripping into his brain, looking a little more settled. “Cassie. Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I’ve been instructed not to say the same,” she replies, stern with a little simmering smile underneath. Richie beams at her, then twists his head to beam at Eddie.

Eddie flinches again. “ _Don’t_ fall off the fucking chair, Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, I get it,” Richie says, rolling his eyes, “no chatting on the job.” He twists his head back to look at Cassie, which is, at least, less physical contortion. “He’s impossible to work for, right?”

“The window-cleaning regime is draconian,” she says, smiling.

“Oh.” Richie says, distracted, looking at his hand. “Hey little guy.”

It takes Eddie an embarrassing amount of time to realise Richie’s not addressing him.

“Oh my _God._ I’ll get the insect killer-”

“It’s fine,” Richie says, stepping down gingerly from the chair and heading for the door. “Let’s get you outside, buddy.” _Eddie’s not feeling great about the fact that whatever creepy-crawly Richie is dealing with warrants all the same nicknames as him._

“Far away!” Eddie yells after Richie as he heads into the garden.

“Neighbours’ yard!” Cassie yells, a little more calmly.

Richie comes in. Blinks his big eyes and asks, “What does a spider bite feel like?”

Eddie stares at him until Richie breaks into a grin.

“ _Fuck_ you, man. And wash your fucking hands,” he adds as Richie makes to ruffle his hair.

 _Draconian,_ Richie mouths at Cassie, but he makes his way to the kitchen.

When he comes back, he tousles his still-wet fingers in Eddie’s hair.

Eddie allows it. His hands are, at least, clean, and Eddie will take his victories where he can get them.

Cassie surveys Richie, arms akimbo. “Cleaning and pest disposal. Does the perfect house-husband cook as well?”

“Up to Eddie’s standards? Doubtful.”

Cassie sighs, heading to the kitchen. “Don’t make me do my job,” she whines, stretching out the syllables.

“…Can _she_ cook?” Richie asks, as soon as she’s left the room, helping himself to a seat at the dining table.

“She’s heating up ready meals,” Eddie says, wheeling to sit opposite him. “There’s not a lot of room for failure. For people who aren’t you, at least.”

“You put plastic in the oven _one_ time and suddenly it’s all you’re known for.”

“That and several decades of shitty comedy.”

“And one year of excellent comedy?” Richie asks with puppy-dog eyes.

“It’s only June,” Eddie says, “let’s not jinx it.”

It’s not long before Cassie makes her way out of the kitchen, plates in hand. “I heated up everything in the freezer, so you’ve got a choice between chicken tenders, risotto, or something that’s 80% vegetables.”

“Dibs on the chicken tenders,” Richie says immediately, and Cassie sets his plate down in front of him.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to say ‘dibs’ when you’re being _offered_ a choice, asshole. I swear, sometimes it seems like you never grew out of adolescence.”

“Aw,” Richie says, with an affectionate pout. “Are you jealous you didn’t get the tendos?”

“I’ll have the vegetables.” Eddie says. “Like an _adult_.”

Cassie accordingly, sets the rest of the plates down.

“Thanks,” Eddie says, bites down on the _hon_ that would always follow with Myra. He thinks, sometimes, that he should’ve hired a male carer. Fall into less familiar patterns. But he’s very, very single, and very new to… _having_ a sexuality, basically. And, in hindsight, he doesn’t have a great track record of _not_ falling in love with men who pay him the slightest bit of attention, so. Probably for the best.

Richie, as if he has a line to Eddie’s brain, wordlessly drops a chicken tender onto his plate.

Eddie sighs, like he’s making some kind of sacrifice, and digs in. When he meets Cassie’s gaze, she’s looking increasingly bemused.

Her eyes dart to Richie. “So. Eddie says you’re a comedian. I imagine that pays even less than social work?”

Eddie cough-laughs into elbow while Richie looks up with a degree of trepidation.

“Cassie,” he says sombrely. “I have some disappointing news about the state of the world.”

_Cassie is great. Cassie is great, and it’s great that her and Richie are getting along!_

But, when conversation is on its 2nd hour, Eddie starts feeling a little bit like his 13-year-old self. Wanting to ask his mother if he and Richie can go up to his bedroom, now that they’ve finished dinner.

_He definitely can’t say any of that. For so many reasons._

But Cassie must pick up on something, because she gets up, starts stacking plates, and says, “I should start clearing some of this up.”

Richie stands up, and asks, “Can I help?” in a way that makes it sound like he’s never washed dishes before.

“Oh no no,” Cassie says. “You have to stay and entertain Eddie.”

_Perfect._

“Don’t leave me alone with him,” Eddie pleads.

“If you hear screaming, don’t be alarmed,” Richie says. “Just assume Eddie’s mauling me.”

“Wouldn’t be my _first_ assumption,” she says, and promptly turns heel to the kitchen.

_Cassie is not great. Cassie is sent from hell to torture him._

“Ha.” Richie scratches the back of his neck. There’s an awkward silence.

“…Are you gonna eat the Twinkies you brought, or leave them to rot in my cupboard?”

“Is this aversion an I-think-I-can-only-eat-wheatgerm thing, or an I-really-don’t-like-Twinkies thing?”

“The latter,” Eddie says, getting the box from the coffee table and handing it over. “They taste like salty cream, I don’t get it.”

Richie tilts his head to the side, puts on an accent that’s probably supposed to be camp, and says, “Listen, if we wanna keep up this Don’t Ask Don’t Tell thing, you’ve really gotta stop setting me up.”

Eddie frowns. _He really should’ve said something after Richie’s show._ “I don’t ask _because_ you don’t tell. Should I be asking more?”

“No,” Richie says, looking like he regrets bringing it up. “I-it was just a joke, Eds.”

“Seriously, Richie.” And then, because he can’t help getting hyperbolic when he gets passionate, “You can talk about sucking dick for all I care.”

Eddie hates the way his mouth turns sentiments like _You can tell me anything_ into sentences that sound more like _I’ve boiled down your identity to blowjobs._

“Jesus.” Richie says, making a face like he’s stepped on glass and is trying not to make a big deal out of it. “Good to know.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“You’re fine,” Richie says quickly. _Maybe because he tends to forgive instantaneously. Maybe because he wants to end this conversation. Probably both._

“So,” Richie asks, as the both of them forage for other conversation threads. “Do I get to sleep on your massive couch tonight?”

A frisson of panic makes its way down Eddie’s spinal cord. “Fuck. Um, I forgot Cassie was going to stay on the sofa bed-”

“All good,” Richie says, “I can sleep on the fl-”

“Bed’s available,” Eddie says, realising instantaneously that he should’ve sounded just a _little_ more hesitant.

“Oh.” Richie says. “Um. Floor’s fine, really.”

Eddie’s sheepishness is overtaken by the very real fear that Richie is old enough that his bones may spontaneously turn to dust if he sleeps without a real mattress. “C’mon Rich. Just take the bed. I don’t kick as much as I used to, promise,” he deadpans.

The corner of Richie’s mouth quirks up, which Eddie is going to take as some kind of success. “I’m sure you’ll still find a way to body slam me to the floor.”

“Don’t get my hopes up.”

_Don’t panic_ , he tells himself all the way through brushing his teeth. _This is fine._

Richie’s taken it upon himself to catch Eddie up on all the memes he missed throughout the years. Right now, Eddie’s seeing a blurry memory of a dog whose house is on fire. He doesn’t think that’s a good sign.

Eddie spits out his toothpaste and turns, hand on the bathroom doorknob.

Richie had implied he’d change while Eddie brushed his teeth, and Eddie feels suddenly incapable of judging how long that would take.

He waits for a good minute longer than it would take anyone to get dressed, and opens the door to Richie in a grey tee and boxer shorts.

“You brush your teeth for too long,” Richie says offhandedly.

“What’s more likely?” Eddie fires back. “I brush my teeth for too long, or you have no idea how long personal hygiene should take?”

“My dad was a dentist. You brush your teeth for too long.”

Eddie frowns.

Not just at the comment, but at the fact that it’s just striking him how domestic an observation it is. Richie knows things about him now, about his routine. Standing there in his sweatpants and faded grey cotton shirt, hair wispy at the edges, spooling of observations about Eddie.

_This is fine._

“Which side do you sleep on?” Richie asks.

“Right,” says Eddie, but Richie starts heading towards his side.

Eddie flinches back into his seat. “ _What_ are you doing?”

Richie flinches a little too, shoulders drawing up, marionette-like. “Uh.” He looks between Eddie and the bed. “Do you want some help?”

 _What did you think was going to happen, Eddie?_ “Oh. I can, uh, handle it.”

Richie blinks. “For real?”

Eddie narrows his eyes.

“Ok, ok,” Richie says, holding his hands up in surrender, and slipping into his side of the bed.

_Still turned on his side to watch Eddie, though, which is unfortunate._

Eddie can handle getting into bed by himself in the sense that he tried it once, when Cassie was standing there to catch him, and almost toppled to the ground in the process.

After a few minutes of twisting and turning and sweating an embarrassing amount, both from exertion and the ever-present threat of falling, Eddie is laying back under the covers.

“Fuck, that’s cool,” he hears from beside him.

He rolls his eyes.

“Seriously, Eddie. That’s cool as shit.”

It doesn’t erase any of the embarrassment he’s feeling. Just layers another type on top.

But Richie breaks the tension, like he always does.

“Can you get the light?”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Eddie says, elbowing him swiftly in the side and trying not to smile. “Your fucking monkey arms can probably reach it from here.”

Richie just huffs a laugh as he gets up to turn the light off. He bumps into the dresser on the way back, but Eddie can hear him slide into the bed next to him, the unmistakable slide of sheets against skin.

Eddie’s thinking. Wondering how much longer it would’ve taken him to try getting into bed on his own if Richie wasn’t here, thinking about the fact that Richie always seemed to run head-first into danger and come out relatively unharmed. He knows that trying to find the balance between rebellion and dependence feels like walking a soapy tightrope, and he knows that as much as he wants to figure it out on his own, the thought of Richie standing underneath, ready to catch him…it feels how he imagines home is meant to feel. And it makes words unspool from him, questions that have been ricocheting between his ribs for a while now.

“Rich?” he murmurs. “Can I ask you a weird question?”

“Mm?”

“How do you decide which risks to take?” he asks, and immediately cringes. It sounds so simplistic, so childish, but it’s not simple to Eddie.

The dark fades Eddie’s vision, but he hears a hitch in Richie’s breath with crystal clarity.

“You overestimate how much I think through my choices,” Richie says eventually.

He sounds cautious.

Eddie frowns, confused. “So-what, writing your own material, that was a spur of the moment decision?”

Eddie can see Richie’s head shift momentarily before he looks back at the ceiling. “No. No, I guess I just balanced, uh. What I could gain and what I could lose.” He’s swallowing half the words.

“I don’t know how to balance,” Eddie admits. “I feel like I’m always walking a fucking tightrope. And whenever I get the hang of it, it moves a storey higher.”

“I think you’re better at it than you realise.”

 _Strong words, coming from the guy who can still walk,_ Eddie wants to say. But he doesn’t want Richie to think he regrets it, throwing the spear, propelling Richie from the deadlights, because he doesn’t regret anything. Except maybe not bringing along a claw-proof vest.

“But whenever you’re wondering. You could ask me. For, I don’t know, help, or advice, or whatever…” Richie says with a little shrug, brushing it off.

“You got pinkeye 3 times when we were kids. I don’t trust your advice.” _Why are you asking for it then, Eddie?_

Richie just laughs. “I always take better care of you than me, though. Don’t I?” he asks, then Eddie watches his mouth plateau out, Adam’s apple bobbing.

 _You should be more careful about what you say_ , Eddie thinks, fighting the urge to furl his fingers in Richie’s stretched collar. _People might get the wrong idea_.

“Technically.” Eddie says. “I mean, you only gave me pinkeye one of those times.”

Richie huffs a laugh, and Eddie can feel the warm breath of it on his neck, the water vapour that sticks to his skin like sweat. It’s gross, objectively, but Eddie has trouble being objective about Richie.

“I don’t want you to have to take care of me,” he admits.

“It’s not like-” Richie starts, and then he’s turning on to his side to face Eddie, making his skeleton feel like a house of cards, fluttery and prone to collapse. “I mean. We take care of each other.”

“Mm,” Eddie says noncommittally. He can’t think of a single thing he’s done for Richie in the last couple months. But it’s clear this conversation is making him uncomfortable, so. Maybe dropping it can be Eddie’s first selfless act of the year.

He sleeps better than he has in a long time. Wakes up early, thankfully, so Richie, sleeping like a log, doesn’t have to see someone help him with his morning routine.

He manages to get back into his chair with a minimum of panicked near-heart-attacks.

Cassie makes her way in, right on time, looking proud.

“You tryna put me out of a job?”

“Always,” says Eddie. He’s testing the waters with this whole being-an-asshole-to-Cassie thing. He thinks she’d be ok with it.

Predictably, she grins. “Oh, so you wanna make your own breakfast, or…?”

By the time Eddie is showered, dressed, teeth-brushed and sitting at the dining table, Richie is still sleeping.

“Late sleeper, your bedmate,” Cassie says as she cooks up scrambled eggs.

“My _bedmate_?”

Cassie turns her head to smile at him. “Your bedmate. The person you’re sharing a bed with.”

“Uh-huh.” Eddie says dubiously.

That’s when Richie walks in, with nothing but a: “Coffee?”

“I’m making some,” Cassie says. His gratefulness is evident.

“If you slept for less than 16 hours, you wouldn’t need coffee,” Eddie interjects.

Richie blinks at him. “Do you _not_ drink coffee? Are you just like that, naturally?”

“Fuck you,” says Eddie. “And yes. It’s not good for anxiety, or-”

Richie sits next to him, one hand holding up his forehead and the other flapping dismissively. “I can’t hear about how shitty coffee is for me until I’ve had my coffee, thank you.”

Cassie serves up scrambled eggs for the three of them, and coffee for her and Richie,

And for a second, the whole tableau seems very neat.

Then Richie says, “I should start heading off soon. Meeting with Steve at 2 about a new job opportunity.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Is voicing a cartoon rodent interesting? Tell me, honestly, because I can’t decide.”

Eddie assesses. “…I think it’s _potentially_ interesting.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Cassie says. “I would _kill_ to voice a cartoon rodent.”

“Cassie’s on board,” Richie says, thumping a hand on the table. “Guess I’m in.”

Richie goes, and Eddie helps clean up best he can.

“He’s cute,” Cassie says as she does the washing up.

“He’s gay,” Eddie says, and winces at himself. _Sound more jealous, why don’t you?_

But Cassie just says, “I noticed,” and Eddie doesn’t know what the fuck that means, because Richie doesn’t fit into any stereotypes that Eddie’s aware of.

Not that Eddie’s aware of a lot.


	4. Chapter 4

Mike, who fucked off out of Derry as soon as possible, has invited them all to a housewarming party for his new city apartment.

He had asked Eddie about all the ways he could make it easier for him to access, catalogued them like a true librarian. Eddie had said some vague things about making space, but still finds himself floundering when he sees the obscenely tidy apartment.

“It’s so clean,” he says and figures, coming from him, it’ll sound like a sincere compliment.

Mike gives a little shrug. “I wanted a fresh start.”

Stan, who is already sipping tea at the table, says, in complete earnestness, “It’s nice, right?”

Richie, who is the next to show up, has none of Eddie’s qualms. He barrels in, says, “Jesus. Buy a fucking ficus, or _something_. This is serial-killer empty.” Ben knows enough architectural jargon to deliver some unintelligible compliments, and Bev gets away with just humming in agreement occasionally.

Bill manages to arrive last and still show them all up by actually bringing a pot plant.

“I mean, we can switch to something _easy_ like Snap,” Stan says contemptuously. It’s an hour into the night, and they’re already too tipsy for the game they’re in the middle of. “But the rules are pretty simple. You guys just need to remember that you have to take 2 cards more than the sum of cards you discarded on the last 2 turns once you start picking up on your 8th turn. Unless you’re the Jester, in which case you can pick up on every even-numbered turn, and…”

Richie leans back in his chair, miming picking up the empty chair next to him and hitting Stan over the head with it, repeatedly. Eddie coughs conspicuously.

Bev whispers a smiling something into Ben’s ear and Eddie tries not to feel the clammy clutch he’s been feeling whenever people share a moment of intimacy.

_God. When Richie gets a boyfriend, he is so utterly fucked._

He excuses himself to get some air, hears Stan’s sighed “We’ll have to reshuffle your cards,” and wheels away.

He doesn’t think his wheelchair can actually handle the balcony, but he makes his way down the corridor and heads into the study, just trying to get some distance. Distract himself with the cornucopia of books he's sure Mike owns.

_Aaand he’s fucked up the angle of approach._

Eddie reaches down to fiddle with the wheel, tries rocking back and forth to free it from the doorjamb.

 _No luck_.

He should probably call for help. There's not a direct line of sight back to the living room, but they'd hear him easily.

He’s so fucking sick of calling for help.

40 years of asking doctors to _tell me how to live_. One brief moment in Derry where he thought he could manage on his own. And now he doesn’t even have to ask. Just gets _told._ Because now there’s actual fucking danger, a whole new array of situations he doesn’t know how to navigate, the constant fucking tiptoeing along a tightrope between paranoia and recklessness, because he doesn’t have anyone to tell him how to do this. Because this isn’t his fucking life.

He knows getting stuck in a doorframe is the dumbest possible thing to spark a breakdown, but feels it creeping up on him all the same. He’s so used to purging every negative emotion through running, tussling with Richie and bouncing off the walls. Having to stay still feels like being lanced in place by a fucking clown claw all over again.

“Eds?” comes a soft voice behind him. Eddie twists his head to see Richie surveying the scene, eyebrow raised.

So distantly from the way he wants to be observed. With a nervy kind of concern, like a parent with a hyperactive toddler.

“Dude. Why didn’t you call out? Or text? I know you have your phone on you all the time, you fucking yuppie.”

Eddie shrugs. He thinks the only thing that would make this situation more embarrassing is tears. He really doesn’t want to open his mouth and risk it.

“-should probably lift you out first,” Richie is saying when he tunes in. “That cool?”

Eddie just nods, not entirely sure what he’s agreeing to, and Richie’s arms deftly slide under his knees and back.

“Dude. Help me out.”

Eddie accordingly slides his arms around Richie’s neck, feels stubble brush against his fingertips on the way.

If he shut his eyes he could probably imagine this differently.

He keeps them open.

Richie carries him to Mike’s bedroom and sets him on the end of the bed. “Ben’s got that whole gentle giant thing going on. He can probably manage to get it out without breaking it.”

Eddie can see it, everyone crowding around in a Concerted Effort, like doctors round a hospital bed, and he feels ill.

“Don’t. They’re right in the middle of their game.”

“It’s fine, Eds. It’ll take two minutes.” He turns to go, and Eddie can hear his voice crack on the “ _Richie_. Please.”

It’s hard to disguise a dam breaking. But you can always try.

He looks down at his hands, focusses on rubbing the multiplying drops of water off with his fingers, chooses to believe that if he can’t see Richie, Richie can’t see him either.

Except he knows it’s not true, knows from the long pause, the way Richie says his name, the dip he feels in the bed next to him.

Arms slide between Eddie’s, canvassing his back, and he tenses for a second before leaning in, looping his arms around Richie’s neck, feeling his warmth.

 _It’s the first time they’ve hugged since Derry_ , he thinks, _since he was dead,_ and it draws a shocky sob from him.

Eddie can feel Richie’s fingers tense at that, clutching at Eddie’s t-shirt until he relaxes them, smoothing one up and down Eddie’s back instead. A little frantically. Cheering people up has never really been Richie’s wheelhouse. At least once they’re past the point of dirty jokes, which is a stage Richie probably classifies as _clinically dead._

So he takes pity, tries to taper off the tears, focusses on Richie instead.

_He smells of some inoffensive clean-sheets-sea-breeze deodorant. Not whatever horrible teenage-boy-hormone spray he wore when they were 13. Bev’s influence, probably. Less of the alcohol he smelled like at Jade of the Orient, and more like Cheetos. The lesser of two evils, he guesses._

_He’s wearing the same mustard shirt he wore in Derry. Eddie doesn’t know why he’s surprised. He kept things too. Thought he would trash it all, then found more he wanted to remember than forget._

_He leeches warmth, not like in high school when his little stick-limbs never seemed to have enough blood flowing through them, when Eddie had to wrap Richie’s hands up in his own to keep them warm. Which is good, probably, but right now it just seems like one less thing Eddie can do for him._

Then Richie’s pulling back a little. Eddie keeps his hands on his shoulders, too embarrassed to move them and reveal the soaked patch of his sleeve. Richie keeps his hands at Eddie’s waist too. Much less self-consciously, as far as Eddie can tell.

Richie looks like he’s about to ask what’s wrong, but he looks like he knows, or thinks he knows, and eventually he settles on, “Wanna talk about it?”

Eddie shakes his head. He doesn’t, but he also doesn’t know how to. It’s 18 different things all tied up together, and even if he were brave enough to throw out something like _I think I’m touch-starved_ , he couldn’t take _Mostly for you_ following after it.

_Throw the baby out with the bathwater, and you end up with Derry’s sewer system._

“I’m fine,” he says instead. “Sorry.” He hates hearing the congestion in his own voice.

Richie just shakes his head, _don’t be._ His hand moves from Eddie’s waist, pushes his hair back from his forehead, moves lower, like he’s about to drag a thumb under his eyes, then twitches, and curls in his lap instead.

“Do you want me to get someone?” he asks. “Bev?”

Eddie, confused, asks, “Why Bev?”

Richie blinks. “Oh. I just. I guess I’m used to talking to her about stuff.”

Eddie knew that on some level. They were close as kids too.

Eddie puts on a little frown and says, “I thought you talked to _me_ about stuff,” aiming to lighten the mood. Given the context, it probably just sounds bitter.

“I do,” Richie says. “But as our only female friend, Bev is tasked with the full burden of my boy talk.”

Eddie frowns properly, then, because it sounds like either Richie knows Eddie’s not an entirely unbiased party, or he still thinks Eddie’s going to pull some homophobic shit.

“I can do boy talk.”

Richie’s eyes widen a little, before he lets out this awkward laugh.

“Ok.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Go on,” Eddie says, rapping his knuckles against Richie’s knee. “it’ll distract me.”

“Wh-There aren’t any boys right now. My boxers are full of tumbleweed and chirping crickets.”

Eddie wishes he could claim that his brain didn’t file away _boxers not briefs or maybe boxers and briefs? More information required_.

“Right. No one’s down to fuck the recently out celebrity comedian with his own Netflix special?”

“I _know_ ,” Richie says, not looking at him. “I’m as shocked as you are.”

Richie must be able to sense an interrogation coming, because he goes on the attack. “What about you? Who-”

Which is when they hear Ben’s voice echo through the walls. “Eddie? Oh my _God_.”

There’s a brief pause.

“…I think he found the chair,” Richie says.

Eddie is the first to break into laughter, but Richie grins at him soon after.

“Go.” Eddie shoves Richie, catching his breath. “You need to break it to him that I didn’t miraculously start walking.”

“ _Or…_ We lean into it. Consider the pranks.”

“He has the heart of a puppy in a Disney film. That would crush him.”

Richie gets up with an exaggerated sigh. “The man’s had it too good for too long, Spaghetti. The looks, the muscles, the personality. That Jessica Rabbit-lookalike he’s always hanging out with?”

“It sounds like you’re angling for a three-way with Ben _and_ Bev,” Eddie says. “Is _that_ why you haven’t been dating?”

“Miss Marple solves another one,” Richie says, messing Eddie’s hair up with his fingers before heading out. “Fine, I guess I can do without the pranks while I watch our most jacked friend use sheer brute force to extract a wheelchair from a doorway. It’ll be tough. But I’ll manage.”

 _Take pictures_ , Eddie almost says, remembering just in time that he is, ostensibly, straight. Then his brain catches up. “Wait. Brute force? Richie-”

But Richie’s already out the door.

 _Fine,_ Eddie thinks. _Netflix money can pay for my new wheelchair_

_._

Ben, _thank fuck_ , is a little less reckless than Richie, and manages to get Eddie’s wheelchair out without breaking anything.

Ben also lifts him into it. Eddie doesn’t enjoy it quite as much as he was hoping to (Ben approaches the task the same way he would approach putting a baby bird into its nest. It’s not very sexy.) The good news is that apparently this isn’t evident to Richie, who continually glances between the two of them with a palpable discomfort. Arms folded, fingers tapping at his elbow.

 _That’s right_ , Eddie thinks gleefully. _I got a Ben bridal carry and you didn’t. I’m objectively better at being gay than you are, and I’m not even out yet. Suck it up, asshole._

As expected, Richie asks, “Do you think Ben could bridal-carry me? Or can he only handle the physique of a gym rat from Hobbiton?” while they’re heading back to the living room.

“Break your legs, we’ll find out.”

“Eddie. Would you do me the honour of taking a hammer to my kneecaps?”

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” Eddie responds, cheeks dimpling.

Richie has no idea how anyone falls in love with anyone else.


	5. Chapter 5

Eddie keeps his distance from the Losers after that, just for a little while, to let the embarrassment die down.

He regrets it as soon as Richie announces he’s going on tour, and the days apart turn into weeks. Eddie can’t even take advantage of it to catch up on the show he missed, knows he’s nowhere near ready to start navigating road trips and hotels.

Richie hasn’t messaged much. Just a few updates in the group chat.

_Which is fine,_ Eddie reminds himself as lays in bed, watching sunlight leak through the bottom of the curtains. _He’s busy._

Still. It’s making him realise how fiercely he misses him. Stirs up the stagnant guilt he has for missing that first show, for missing conversations he should’ve had, and spears a new fear of losing Richie into his head. Makes it vital that Richie knows Eddie wants him to stick around, even if he has to embarrass himself to get there.

He gets himself into his wheelchair and heads to the living room, where Cassie’s already reading a book.

“Morning,” he says. “Uh. Do you know anything about party planning?”

Richie’s wearing blue jeans and a maroon cable-knit jumper.

It’s not important information.

It makes sense, given that he probably wore a lot of button-ups _(Hawaiian shirts, same thing),_ and slacks and blazers and his _I’m-cool-but-I’m-not- **trying** -to-be-cool_ leather jacket while he was on tour. Now that he’s home ( _well, at Eddie’s house)_ , he probably just wants to be comfortable.

It’s just that Eddie hasn’t seen him in a jumper before. At least not since they were kids. And maybe it accentuates the softness Richie’s personality’s accrued since they all made it out of Derry.

Which is not good for Eddie.

Richie never used to seem like a relationship person. Or anything other than a drunken hookup person.

But Eddie can imagine this Richie in a relationship. Not in a relationship with _him_ , he’s not that blindly optimistic. But walking around Central Park with some faceless guy, holding hands. Writing him into acts and buying apology takeaway. Bringing him along to every single goddamn Loser dinner, laughing when he pokes at Eddie, because Richie, inevitably, is going to teach him to poke at Eddie. Until Eddie inevitably breaks, and screams at someone, and all his friends think he’s an asshole because he can’t explain why, and this smarmy motherfucker that Richie is hooking up with gets sympathy from all 6 of them.

_…Fucking piece of shit jumper._

He’s drawn out of his thoughts by Bev’s voice, on the other side of the table.

“This cake is delicious, Eddie.”

“Tell Cassie,” Richie pipes up, interrupting himself in the middle of a conversation with Mike.

“Fuck you,” Eddie says. “I made it myself. Cassie…helped.” _By putting all the ingredients somewhere he could reach. But he’s not giving Richie that detail._

“Aw.” Richie cocks his head, looking genuinely touched. “You made all this for lil ol’ me?”

Eddie flushes. “The end of your little travelling show _is_ something to celebrate. I’m sure audiences round the world are grateful it’s finally over.”

Richie grins, propping his head up on a hand, _stupid fucking piece of shit jumper_ pulled past his wrist.

“You’re gonna be _so_ disappointed when you hear what Netflix has in store.”

Eddie thinks the surprise must show on his face. It definitely shows on Richie’s, the instant Mike claps him on the back. Like he’d forgotten he wasn’t just talking to Eddie.

He fields the questions as best he can. Eddie manages to slip his heartfelt congratulations into the mix before his phone rings.

Six pairs of eyes turn to him as _Shoop_ starts playing.

“…Richie can explain _that_ ,” he says. “Sorry, um. I should probably get this.”

He heads to his bedroom, picking up the call on the way.

“Hey Myra.”

When Richie peeks in on the bedroom, Eddie’s moved from his wheelchair to the bed, lying on his back while his legs dangle over the end.

Clearly he doesn’t expect the call to end anytime soon.

“Myra, are you sure it’s not just the fridge? It sounds exactly like the noises the fridge used to make. No, I don’t think I can come up right now, can you call the landlord instead? Or Errol? Well I’m 3 hours away, so if it _is_ a murderer, we’d better hope he’s patient.”

A long sigh.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t joke about that. I’m sorry, hon- _Myra_. I’m sorry, Myra. I can stay on the phone with you while you check it out, I just. I don’t really see how _I’m_ the best candidate to bring down a potential home invader. I mean, is he _also_ in a wheelchair?”

A brief pause. “That’s not-He’s not a _bad influence_ , Myra.”

Richie bites down on a laugh. Not soon enough.

Eddie looks up and promptly gives him the finger. “Yes, I am still doing my exercises. Yes, I know I could still get better. That’s _why_ I’m doing my exercises. Ok. Sorry. Ok. I’ll talk to you later, swee- _Myra_.”

“Who’s Sweemyra?” Richie asks, thrumming his fingers against the door.

Eddie scowls. “It’s rude to eavesdrop.”

“That can’t be right,” Richie says, going to sit on the bed by Eddie. “I did a 3-week online etiquette course last year, and I fucking aced it.”

Eddie groans, and puts his head in his hands. “Can I say something terrible?”

“Please.”

“Sometimes I wish it _was_ an acrimonious divorce. Only communicating through lawyers sounds good right about now.”

Richie snorts. “You think maybe the _reason_ she was so amiable about it is because she gets to keep a constant line to the Kaspbrak residence?”

Eddie looks up and frowns. “Maybe. But. She’s been _so_ generous and forgiving, and I can’t-I can’t just _not_ answer the phone, when she thinks her apartment’s being invaded or she’s got fucking smallpox.”

“Mm,” Richie says. “You _can_ , though.”

“I can’t,” Eddie says firmly. “Would you hang up on me in the middle of a panic attack?”

“I mean. No-”

“There you go. And _we_ weren’t married.”

“You never asked,” Richie says, but he forgets to put on the Southern Belle twang, or flutter his eyelashes, or do anything to drown out the sincerity.

Eddie’s big eyes fix on him like he’s waiting for something, and Richie feels a staticky ache in his throat.

Until, _Thank Christ_ , Eddie looks back at his hands and belatedly says, “Asshole. My point. My _point_ is that I get some of what she’s going through, and she doesn’t have that many people to talk to and maybe part of that is my fault! For suspending her love life for half a decade, so. Yeah, I’m going to keep answering the phone.”

Richie watches him. Doesn’t think arguing the point is going to change anyone’s mind.

“Hey, maybe she’ll marry the home invader. Solve everyone’s problems.”

Eddie snorts, and immediately follows it up with, “That’s not funny, Richie.”

Richie grins at him.

“Hey, gimme your phone,” he says in the calm silence that follows. “I’ll change the ringtone.”

Eddie holds the phone away suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because you clearly don’t know how to change it back, and I’m taking pity on your old ass.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie says. “I know how to change a ringtone.”

He regrets it as soon as he says it. It’s probably not normal to keep your friend’s joke ringtone on your phone forever.

But Richie just says, “Oh.” and tangles his hands in his lap.

There’s a brief silence. Eddie can only think of one way to change the topic, even though it’ll probably end up embarrassing him all the more.

“Hey. I, uh. Have something for you. Can you get the bag from the bedside table? Don’t look inside until I can…Explain?”

“Well that sounds ominous,” Richie says as he gets up and brings the bag back to the foot of the bed, sitting next to Eddie again. “Is it an off-brand sex toy? A puppy you forgot to feed?”

“Ew. No.” He takes the bag back from Richie, who raises an eyebrow. He feels like he has to be the one to hand it over. Regain some sense of control.

“Um, I’m sorry that I wasn’t there. At your first show since Derry. I mean, I didn’t know that you were going to-” _Jump right out of the closet. Write your own material. Actually be funny._ “-…uh. Be as ballsy as you were. But still. I should’ve been there.”

Richie smiles, like it’s all he needs to hear. “It’s fine, Eddie, I asked Stan to heckle me instead and he did great. Could’ve been a little louder, but his delivery was perfect.”

“Funny.” Eddie says flatly.

“Yeah!” Richie says, with a happy little bounce of his head, “Just like that!”

Eddie bites down on a smile, and reaches into the bag.

“Ok, so this is probably the cheesiest thing I’ve ever done, but uh, I didn’t want you to think I didn’t give a shit and I just…” He holds a scrapbook out to Richie. “Just take it.”

_Baby’s First Words_ , it says on the cover.

Richie snorts.

“I asked Ben if he had any scrapbooking supplies, and he shoved several folders into my hands. Technically speaking, they _were_ all for future baby books, but-”

“You can barely tell. It’s seamless, Eds.”

Eddie had included the Losers’ ticket stubs, photos of each of them, reviews clipped from newspapers, and a testimonial from Stan that just says _Not as bad as I was expecting._ He ended up filling a few more pages than he meant to.

Eddie watches Richie’s smile fade as he looks through the pages, eyes going wide.

Eddie feels dread slick down his spine like ice water. He can hear Richie’s next show already. _Here’s a question for the audience. How do you pre-emptively reject someone? When they haven’t said anything yet but their feelings are painfully transparent? You know the type. The we-should-have-a-weekend-away-in-Tampa type. The it’s-cheaper-if-we-share-a-bed type. The-_

Richie pulls him into a tight hug, and doesn’t let go.

Eddie’s thoughts fall away, and his fingertips dip between the loose loops of Richie’s cable knit as his hands move to rest on his back.

Richie sniffs, once, and Eddie confusedly registers that he might be tearing up.

Eddie’s been so unused to having control lately that knowing _he’s_ the reason Richie’s happy right now feels wildly surreal.

_You could make him feel even better_ , a traitorous little corner of Eddie’s brain reminds him as he breaths in the cinnamon cologne and long-washed-out smoke scent of Richie’s jumper, sees where the stubble running up his neck fades out. _You could make him feel so good._

He pulls back abruptly.

Richie blinks his big, wet eyes at him as his arms fall back, and Eddie flounders for an excuse.

“Life in a wheelchair. My back is sweaty all the time.”

Richie blinks again.

“I’m not gonna subject you to that.”

“Well, lucky for you,” Richie says, looking more like Richie every second, “back sweat is my-”

“ _Don’t_ say back sweat is your kink,” Eddie says, just as Richie says just that.

Eddie laughs, can’t help it. Tonight feels like the first time he’s been honest in a while, and it went so much better than expected. It’s like the plug’s been pulled out of his soul and he can feel himself filling his body again.

He just has to keep his heart on lockdown.

_Simple._


	6. Chapter 6

_Hey Bev_

_You know how Eddie didn’t come to my first real show_

_And never really mentioned the whole coming out thing_

_And we thought maybe he hated me_

_You thought that_

_I told you he was probably just a little more focussed on adjusting to life in a wheelchair than your career_

_Good news! He was just a little more focussed on adjusting to life in a wheelchair than my career_

_I’m shocked_

_But hey, I’m glad you worked things out_

_So kind of you, Beverly_

_Have I mentioned that you’re glowing lately?_

_It’s like a pregnancy glow, but for adoption_

_That would be from the nightmarish levels of paperwork involved_

_What do you want, Richie?_

_Don’t be weird about this_

_But do you have any photos of Eddie_

_What’s in it for me?_

_Babysitting duties for your future child_

_How about you just promise to never show her your old comedy? No offence but I don’t trust you with children unless Eddie is also there_

_Deal. Despite the fact that you’ve crushed my heart_

Bev attaches a few. Some awkward posed ones, and a couple of smiles, taken surreptitiously.

_Bev you’re an angel_

_Save it for Eddie. You are planning some big romantic gesture using these, right?_

_Ben has done some insane things to your expectations of men_

_Are you telling me I took time out of emailing social workers in order to send you photos of Eddie just so you could jerk off to them?_

_If it helps_

_I was more just planning on leering at them_

_That does not help_

_If anything, it shows even less dedication_

_Just to be clear, you’d prefer it if I WERE jerking off to pictures of our mutual friend?_

_I appreciate follow-through_

_Send me some of Ben then_

_And I’m logging off_

Richie prints off the photos and slides them into the scrapbook. Just so there's a little bit of each Loser in there.

Just so it's complete.


	7. Chapter 7

“So,” Richie’s voice floats through the receiver. “What are your weekend plans? Apart from holding up a Whole Foods, as I’m sure you do every day.”

Richie’s been calling a lot more often.

Eddie’s mood has been a lot better, lately.

There’s a possibility the two are correlated.

“Nothing really,” says Eddie. “Think I might go to Walmart and pick up some home decor. I’ve been wondering if my place looks like Mike’s, and it’s starting to give me a stress headache.”

Richie hums. “You had _a_ painting up, right? I don’t think you’re at Hanlon levels yet.” He pauses, and adds, “I’m in the area, I can take you.”

Eddie squirms. It’s a whole fucking thing, driving places. “That’s ok. Cassie can do it.”

There’s a brief pause. “What’s happening? Are we in a fight that I don’t know about?”

“What? No.”

“Do you like Cassie more than me?”

“Oh my God.”

“Because I’m willing to talk in a higher pitch if that’ll complete the illusion.”

“She has a deeper voice than you, asshole. You couldn’t go any higher without bursting eardrums.”

Richie goes into a Tweety-Bird impression. “How’a youw eawdwums, Eddie?”

Eddie winces. “Did you say something? All I hear is blood rushing.”

He hears Richie snort. “Ok, fine. I’ll be Vito Corleone when I get there.”

Eddie sighs. “Richie.”

“What?” His pitch rises, a little bit of a laugh to it, the voice he adopts whenever he thinks Eddie is being ridiculous. Eddie is _not_ being ridiculous. “What’s the problem, Eds?”

“There’s no problem! That’s the point! I don’t need people to do me favours.”

There’s a painful few seconds of silence, and when Richie’s voice comes through, it sounds chastened. “I wasn’t-”

“I know you don’t view it as some huge burden, but I just-I know what it’s like to feel obligated to someone. I don't want to be anyone's obligation.” Eddie picks at the fabric of his jeans in the silence that follows.

“Eddie,” Richie says gently. “You fucking idiot.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. Hopes, somehow, it comes across.

“We’re friends,” says Richie. “I like hanging out with you, you dumb piece of shit.”

Eddie chews his bottom lip. “It’s not hanging out. It’s…chauffering me.”

“Does it seem like I give a shit, Eds?”

Eddie sighs. “I just don’t want you to have to take care of me every time we spend time together.”

“ _I_ just want us to spend time together.” There’s a pregnant pause. “I really want us to stay friends, Eddie.”

“We’re _going_ to,” Eddie says. “I’m not going to kick you to the kerb just because you stop being _useful_ to me.”

“Message received. I still don’t get why I can’t help you out.”

_Because “carer” isn’t what I pictured you being for the next couple decades._

Eddie sighs. He doesn’t know how to win this argument, isn’t sure he even wants to. “Fine. I guess you can drive me.”

“Ah,” Richie breathes out. “There’s that resigned acceptance I know and love.”

_This is fine._ Richie spent half his childhood carrying Eddie around. Nothing new.

Still. Might be best to keep up the conversation up. Keep it from getting weird.

“So,” Richie says as his hands tighten around Eddie’s thighs and back. “Which one of us is the officer, and which is the gentleman?”

Eddie frowns at him. “You have to know that movie is not about an officer _and_ a gentleman. You think it’s an early-80s gay military romcom?”

Richie bundles him into the passenger seat of his car, fingers dragging away, between the fabric of the car seat and Eddie’s jeans.

Richie eyes him for a second, checking he’s comfortable. Then, in his most condescending tone, says, “Not necessarily. Women can be officers too, Eddie.”

“Oh my God. Get in this car so I can kill you.”

“Yes Officer Kaspbrak, of course Officer Kaspbrak,” Richie says with the tone of a long-suffering underling.

Eddie’s eyes dart away as soon as he says it, peach colouring his cheeks, and Richie thinks maybe he’s feeling a little sheepish.

So he tapers off the teasing, focusses on folding up Eddie’s wheelchair. It takes a while.

“I told you,” he hears. “It’s a lot of work. Especially if you don’t have two brain cells to rub together.”

Richie’s turning it around now, looking for a weak point. “It’s not a lot of work. As soon as I find the fucking…event horizon on this thing, it’ll collapse, easy as pie.”

“You sure you still wanna do this?” he hears. A forced lightness to it.

He looks up at Eddie, who looks like he’s focussing on some point beyond Richie’s shoulder.

“ _Obviously_.” He kind of wants to kick the wheelchair. “What is this sudden obsession with not inconveniencing people? And more importantly, where was it when we were 13?” Richie manages to fold the chair with a _clank_. It’s _probably_ still intact. “When you were forcing me to stock up on all your placebos? Or flinging a paddleball in Stan’s face for 10 minutes? Or-”

“I grew up,” Eddie interrupts, _beep beep_ implied.

“Well. Maybe you should regress a little.”

Eddie rolls his eyes.

“I’m just _saying_ ,” Richie continues, “if you thought any of us were hanging out with you for your _easy-going nature_ -” He does exaggerated quotation marks to see Eddie scowl. “-then you’re deluded, bud.”

“Yeah?” Eddie says, looking up at Richie challengingly. “Why _do_ you hang out with me, then?”

“Because.” Richie says, unable to verbalise that when you do something to Eddie Kaspbrak’s _exacting standards_ it’s like winning a fucking medal, and when you fuck it up, he still laughs at you, or teases you, or whacks you in the arm, _touches_ you, and the consolation prize is as sweet as victory, and you don’t know which to reach for sometimes – is it more important that he _likes_ me, or is it more important that he’s _looking_ at me is an impossible question, they’re both so important.

Instead he just says, “It’s _you_ ,” and even that lays heavy on the ground as soon as he speaks it.

Eddie’s eyes go earnest, and Richie can almost hear the click of a mine beneath his feet. “Besides,” he adds quickly. “Some people like a pain in the ass. Mrs K, for example.”

Eddie’s face scrunches up, and he looks like he’s about to say about four different things, but eventually he settles on, “No one buys you as a top, Richie,” and Richie lets out a grateful, relieved laugh.

Shopping itself is uneventful. Eddie stares at a selection of throw pillows with a laser-like focus until he turns to Richie and asks his opinion. Richie, suddenly struck by anxiety over how domestic this is becoming, points to one at random and excuses himself to go look around the rest of the shop. He returns with 5 Billy Bass in the forlorn hope that Eddie will have a momentary lapse of judgement and buy them all.

When Richie pushes their trolley out into the parking lot, it’s full of 2 throw pillows, no Billy Bass, and a vague geometric sculpture that Richie is convinced is some kind of secret sex toy.

They’re discussing work, which inevitably turns into a rundown of all the co-workers Eddie would personally like to call out a hit on.

“This one guy,” Eddie starts, “every fucking time I mention walking somewhere, he pipes in, like ‘Uh, don’t you mean wheeling?’ I can’t tell if he thinks I’m faking nerve damage or just trying and failing to be funny.”

Richie blinks. “Is this guy _me?_ He sounds like me. Is this you passive-aggressively calling me out?”

“No,” Eddie says, “At least _your_ dumb wheelchair jokes are actually funny.”

Richie’s face lights up and Eddie feels instantaneous regret.

“Run it one more time,” Richie says, getting his phone out. “I wasn’t recording.”

“Not _all_ of them. But statistically, once in a blue moon, a joke is bound to hit the mark. It’s just a numbers game.”

‘Keep going,” Richie grins. “3 more of those and I can finish.”

“I take it back. You’re unilaterally the worst.”

“Oof. That works too.”

“Oh, perfect. Are there any human interactions that don’t get you off?”

Richie spots a blonde, middle-aged woman in the distance. Staring directly at them. Probably a fan. Or former fan.

He sucks in air between his teeth. “Hm. Waving at someone in the middle distance and then enduring the long walk towards them? That’s like social blue balls.” He waves, right on cue.

Eddie grapples for his hand. “Don’t wave at strangers in a Walmart parking lot, Richie. What is _wrong_ with you?” he hisses.

He quiets down as the woman approaches. She’s smiling, now. _Good sign._

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she starts, placing herself directly in front of them. “I just wanted to tell you, what you’re doing is beautiful. This is exactly how celebrities _should_ be using their fame.”

“…By…going to…Walmart?” Richie asks, feeling a little lost.

The woman laughs and gives him a wink. “Exactly. Well, I’ll let you two get back to your trip.” She heads off in the opposite direction.

Richie stands there for a second, then turns to Eddie, whose expression is somewhere between bemused and irritated. “You look like you understand what’s happening.”

“She thinks I’m the oldest Make-A-Wish kid in existence? I don’t know, something along those lines.”

“Jesus,” says Richie, looking out after the woman. “ _Jesus.”_

He looks back at Eddie. Some of his anger has seemed to simmer away since Derry. Or maybe it’s just that he’s gotten used to this kind of thing. Either way, Richie’s not gonna be the one to make this a bigger deal than it needs to be.

“I mean, you do have the height and the doe eyes. But how fucking depressing is it to think some kid’s dying wish would be to meet _me_?”

“And take a trip with you around a Walmart, apparently,” Eddie adds

“I should’ve bought you a beer,” Richie says, “just to confuse the fuck out of her.”

“’Richie Tozier Drives Disabled Minor Towards Alcoholism’. That’s the kind of headline I like to see.”

“I mean, it’s half-true.”

“More than half.”

“...You _are_ a minor?” Richie feigns shock. “Fuck. I knew I shouldn’t have let you watch _Goodfellas_ with me.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “That’s such a dumb fucking joke, Richie, we literally grew up together.”

“So you claim. But who knows where the _real_ Eddie Kaspbrak is.”

“He’s fine. He’s getting all the carrot sticks and prescription medication he could ever want.”

Richie’s laugh rings out like a brass band, and Eddie smiles down at his lap.

Richie raps his knuckles lightly against Eddie’s shoulder, puts on an old-man timbre and says, “Ya treat him well, ya hear me?”

“Deal,” Eddie says, still smiling a little helplessly.

Eddie invites him in, once they’re back at his apartment, and they end up curled on the couch, watching reruns of _Community_.

Last week, Bill somehow convinced Richie to join his weird, culty, rich-people-tennis club, just to have an outlet for all his nervous energy. It hasn’t worked.

When he’s this close to Eddie, he’s still consumed by the need to _touch touch touch_. So he hikes his knees up to his chest, wraps his arms around them and drums his fingers against his calf instead.

He can’t fuck up this fragile symbiosis they have. Eddie’s only just starting to leave the house for things other than work, still not smiling as much as he used to. Wants a friend, and Richie’s the only one nearby, and for the first time, it feels like Eddie needs-or wants-him as much as he needs Eddie. Make a wrong move and he fucks the both of them over.

Then there’s the chance that Eddie reciprocates. Eddie, who’s been acting like he’s resigned to being alone, accepts him out of some warped combination of desperation and pity, and Richie spends the rest of his life wondering if Eddie actually feels a fraction of the overwhelming feelings that Richie feels whenever a tight-lipped, pushed-down smile comes his way.

_He has one of those smiles on now. Aimed at the screen, not Richie._

_Contrary to popular belief, Richie can appreciate someone laughing at something other than him._

_God he’s adorable._ _Wrapped up in his blue TV-watching-blanket. Keeping his plate of activated almonds by his side even though his eyes keep flicking towards the popcorn on the coffee table. A suburban mother in the body of an Olympic gymnast._

Eddie frowns at him. “What?”

Richie’s 95% certain he didn’t say any of that out loud. “What about what?”

“Dude. You sighed.”

Richie blanches. _Oh God. He’s turning Victorian._ “I didn’t sigh. It’s called breathing. You would know what that is if you ever unclenched.”

Eddie throws a cushion at him, and is immediately distracted by his phone ringing.

Richie sneaks a peek. _MYRA_ flashes up on the phone display.

“Seriously? Didn’t she call 2 hours ago?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “She’s probably just worried about the neighbour’s barbeque again.” He picks his phone up from the end table. Richie throws the cushion at his face.

Eddie blinks at him, nonplussed, as the cushion falls onto his lap. “Dude. It’ll take two minutes.”

“Every time she calls, you get this expression. Like you’ve just witnessed someone set fire to an orphanage. You need a break from each other, Eddie.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and moves to answer the call, then yelps as Richie launches himself at him, grappling for the phone. In a couple of seconds, Richie has his arms pinned against the couch and the phone in his hand.

“Look, I _get_ it, you can’t cut her off without guilt-tripping yourself for eternity. But you need to set _some_ boundaries. Like. One call a week. No 3 am texts unless someone’s house is on fire.”

“Ok. Fine.” Eddie says. It sounds like he’s trying to inject some aggression into his tone, but his eyes are wide, flitting nervously, and Richie feels instantly guilty.

_Why would you think this was okay? You’re adults. You’re out. And Eddie can’t get the upper hand anymore._

_Not that he ever could before._

“Sorry,” he mumbles, throwing Eddie his phone and drawing back to his old seat, drumming those fingers like he’s Phil fucking Collins. “Um. You can call her back if you want.”

Eddie sits up, looks at him for a long moment.

“Is everything ok?” he asks, and Richie feels itchy all over.

_Like, apart from holding down my disabled friend who I happen to be in love with so he would pay attention to me instead of his ex-wife? Pretty sure I’ve raised more red flags than Stalin at this point._

“Course. It just sucks that we were interrupted right in the middle of-” He looks to the TV to try to recall what they were watching. “…advertisements for home loans.”

Predictably, Eddie rolls his eyes, throws the cushion at him _again_ , and turns back to the TV.

Richie does not sigh.

He might exhale a little, out of relief that Eddie’s eyes are off him.

“Oh my _God_.” Eddie stares at him accusingly. “ _Again,_ with the sighing!”

“It’s how I breathe! I’m a loud breather.”

“It’s pronounced mouth-breather,” Eddie says, but at least he turns back to the TV.

“That’s offensive to people with sinus problems,” Richie mumbles.

And goes back to tapping his fingers.


	8. Chapter 8

Eddie stares at the wall ahead of him. He tries, as subtly as possible, to lean away from the patient next to him, who looks a little green around the gills.

It’s funny. His old doctor used to beg him to come in less often. Now he gets asked to come in, every couple weeks. Benefits of almost dying.

Even if he finds himself wanting to visit less and less.

“Edward Kaspbrak?” comes the soft voice from the corridor.

They go through the regular questions, and then she asks if he wanted to ask about anything.

“I’ve been doing all the exercises,” Eddie says. “But it says to do them once a day, and I’m pretty sure I could fit in a couple more reps. You know, maximise the chances of recovery. I just didn’t want to uh, over-exert myself, and make things worse. So I uh, thought I should follow…doctor’s orders.”

Marie gives him a sympathetic _(_ _pitying?)_ smile, and looks at him for a second. “You can do the exercises as often as you like, as long as you’re not in pain. But I have to remind you, Eddie. The chance of recovery is small. I just don’t want you blaming yourself if things don’t work out exactly the way you want.”

“I understand,” Eddie says. “I know you have to follow the statistics on these things, but the circumstances of my injury were uh, _unusual_ , and I actually feel _surprisingly_ healthy, and I just. I think I have a shot.”

“It’s been a year,” Marie says. “At what point do we come to terms with it?”

The foundations of Eddie’s polite smile start to break.

She sighs, and looks down at her papers. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to quash your optimism. It’s great that you’re optimistic. It’s just. We keep talking about things you’re going to do _later_. Allergy tests. Weaning yourself off some of your prescriptions. Maybe even looking at your mental health-”

“Pretty sure that last one was a _you_ suggestion,” Eddie interjects.

“I just think that if you keep putting your life off until this _ends_? You might be waiting a while, Eddie.”

Eddie knows how he looks to doctors, when he corrects them, or doubts them. Knows the instant assumption is that he’s a paranoid anti-vaxxer with a cupboard of homeopathic remedies.

But he knows he’s not.

His childhood was enough to convince him that doctors aren’t infallible, and every time he knows something about a condition that they don’t, it convinces him a little more.

He respects Marie. She listens more than some of them do. But her degree is not in demon clown injuries.

_Everyone told him his survival was miraculous. What’s another miracle?_

That’s what Eddie tells himself. But the words sink into his skin like tattoo ink, the same way every single thing his mother used to say did. _W_ _eak, delicate, fragile, sickly._

That Monday, some troglodyte parks a trolley in front of the elevator, and it ends up taking Eddie an hour and a half to get out of the office he’s already spent 8 hours in and he thinks _W_ _hy do I fucking bother?_

He calls in sick the next day. And the next three. Doesn’t leave the house, because _W_ _hat is he going to do?_

Cassie comes by every morning and night. Tuts over him a little bit every time.

Until Friday morning, when she hovers by the blinds after Eddie says he wants them shut.

“If you’re sick,” she says, like she doubts that he is, “sunshine is a disinfectant.”

Eddie lifts his face from the pillow. “Closed.”

She gives the string an experimental tug. “What about, like, 10% sunlight? The amount your average mushroom, or 12 year-old boy gets.”

The echoes of Richie’s cadence aren’t supposed to come along with _this_ , this… _prodding_.

“You don’t get paid extra to smother me,” he says, and regrets it instantly.

Her mouth flatlines. “Closed, then,” she says, and leaves.

Eddie groans into the pillow.

When she comes back that evening, he’s prepared.

Waiting by the door, bag in hand.

“Do you like donuts?” he asks when she comes in. “It’s what I always get delivered for Richie, but uh, I realised I don’t actually know if you like them.”

She smiles. “I like donuts.”

“Sorry,” he says, handing her the bag. “I was an asshole. I just-” _conflate you with 2 of the 3 female figures in my life, one of whom is dead? Might need therapy?_ “-Well. It’s been a week.”

“That’s ok,” she says. “But can we keep this pacifistic attitude going for the next, uh-” She checks her phone. “-five minutes?”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “…Cassie. What did you do?”

Right on cue, there’s a knock on the door.

Cassie opens it to reveal a smiling Richie, who immediately invites himself in.

“My favourite person!” he says. “And Eddie!”

Eddie rolls his eyes.

It’s not like he’s not pleased to see Richie. And he’s trying not to let sulky 16 year-old Eddie out again today, but he feels a little weird about this, people conspiring to shield him from his own company.

“I have it on good authority that you haven’t left the house in like, a week,” Richie says. “So get your shit, we’re going to TGI Fridays.”

Eddie looks at Cassie. “Traitor.”

“You’re welcome,” Cassie says. “You want me to tag along?”

Eddie thinks for a moment. He’s not really in the mood to be lifted onto a toilet seat by his unrequited crush today.

 _Accessible bathrooms?_ He mouths at Cassie, who gives a thumb up in return.

“Then you can take the night off.”

“What?” asks Richie, looking between them. “What’s happening? Whatever the secret is, I want in.”

“No you don’t,” Eddie says firmly.

“Eddie was just checking if the playground there was accessible,” Cassie says, smiling at the both of them.

“Eddie my love, I’ll take you down the slide on my lap if I have to.”

Eddie glares at them. “I hate you both.”

“Have fun in the ball pit!” Cassie says, cheerfully waving them off.

Eddie hates the times in-between. Folding and unfolding his wheelchair, lifting him in and out of car seats, finding the right parking space. He's never been a patient person.

But they’re not as bad with Richie. Richie, who keeps talking about weird fans and weirder network officials all the while, like he’s used to doing this everyday.

Except for the fact that he keeps fucking up.

Eddie fidgets with the seatbelt while he waits. “It’s not that difficult, Richie.”

Richie struggles with the wheelchair for a few more seconds.

“…Do you think they deliver straight to the car?”

“Oh my fucking G-”

And then, by some miracle, Richie’s handled it, wheelchair sitting upright.

“Eddie. I think I should be a mechanic.”

And then Richie’s lifting him up and into the chair.

Eddie always worries that one day, Richie’s going to break his back doing it, but he’s managed so far.

Sometimes it seems like…Sometimes it seems like Richie’s been working out. But that’s probably for the Netflix specials and growing spotlight. Not because he’s planning to bridal-carry Eddie through life.

It’s uneventful, going in, except that a woman with two kids gives Eddie one of those big, slightly patronising, _You’re doing great, sweetie_ smiles; and, Eddie attempts to awkwardly smile back, and Richie sees, and cannot stop fucking laughing, but. Apart from that

Eddie orders a salad. Richie gets the nachos. He lets Eddie steal a few, so he ends up with an empty plate after about 10 minutes.

 _That_ is when a middle-aged woman with a blindingly spiky haircut comes over to lay her hands on Eddie’s shoulders.

He turns to look at her, then turns back to Richie with a look between resigned and apologetic.

Richie has no fucking clue what’s happening, until the woman raises her hands to her chest, and says “Lord, please cure this lamb-”

It’s the kind of material most stand-ups would kill for, but Richie just wishes it would stop, because Eddie _isn’t_ freaking the fuck out, he’s just looking down at his salad, a little embarrassed.

Eddie, who once verbally lambasted a 12 year-old for not walking fast enough, is just looking down at his plate.

 _Why aren’t **you** doing anything?_ Richie asks himself. _You’re an attention whore. Be an attention whore._

So he starts speaking. Lets the words fall as they may. It’s worked surprisingly well for him in the past.

“Can I get some of those prayers my way? Cause currently, I’m definitely going to hell. And not just for the gay shit. We’re talking deceit, sloth, gluttony, envy. A lot of lust. And a little bit of college drug dealing. I’m just saying, if one of us needs your hopes and prayers, it’s not the guy who knows how to do his taxes.”

The woman gives Richie a confused, concerned look. _That makes two of us, lady._ But she backs away. And when Richie looks at Eddie, he sees a glint in his eye, and the corner of his mouth bounding up to hug his dimple.

“You don’t know how to do your taxes?” he asks, _because of course he does._

“ _Eddie_. Jesus. Does that happen a lot?”

Eddie gives a little shrug. “It happens.”

“…How do they think it works? You get ten holes punched on your prayer card and suddenly you can walk again?”

“Who knows?” Eddie says. “Maybe they’re actually praying away the gay.”

Eddie keeps eating his Caesar salad while Richie stares at him.

“…Is this happening?” Richie asks. “Right now? Here?”

Eddie shrugs. “I just got prayed over in an TGI Fridays. Coming out seemed like less of a big deal.”

“Yuh-huh,” says Richie. “Well, that’s-thanks for telling me.” _What’syourtypeisitshittycomedians?_ “Are you seeing anyone?” He has a frightening thought. “Are you on the apps?” He makes a mental note to delete at least 3 of the photos from his ancient Grindr profile.

Eddie puts his fork down just to level an incredulous look at Richie. “What would my profile even say? 41 year-old, newly out, disfigured, disabled, neurotic gay man who probably has PTSD. Recently divorced from my wife of 5 years. Hates most people. Especially clowns.”

“Nope,” says Richie. “Two words for you, bud. ’Portable twunk.’”

Eddie makes a face. “Great. That’s really going to appeal to serial killers.”

“It’d work on me.”

“Serial killers and perverts,” Eddie amends, and goes back to stabbing shards of broccoli. “Seriously, do you want me to teach you how to do your taxes?” he asks, “If you become one of those celebrities who gets arrested for tax evasion, it’s going to be so embarrassing for me.”

Richie is not deflected that easily, but clearly his brain disconnects from his spinal cord at some point, because he finds himself saying, “Give me your phone. I’ll make you a Grindr profile.”

“Uh-uh,” says Eddie. “I’m not tryna hook up with a stranger.” 

“Fine,” Richie says. “Christian Mingle. Tinder. Whatever.”

Eddie has a lot of fight. He also knows when Richie is not going to give up on something.

“Fine,” he says, getting out his phone and sliding it over. “I’m not gonna use it, but sure, go wild.”

Richie picks it up and says, “You know there’s a dating website for clowns?”

“Your Facebook profile is not a dating website.”

“It is if you believe in self-love,” Richie says, focussing on filling out a profile for Eddie. “Hey, where do you keep your shirtless selfies?”

“They’re all for documenting scar tissue healing. They’re not hot.”

“Speak for yourself,” Richie says, then when Eddie makes a face, adds, “We’ll just…zoom in really close, or something. Make it like, a bellybutton pic.”

“I’m not posting a fucking bellybutton pic,” Eddie says, looking askance. “It’s like you want me to get abducted.”

“Compromise,” Richie says. “Bellybutton pic. Machete in the background. Big ‘Don’t fuck with me’ vibes.”

Eddie splutters a laugh, and that’s when Richie strikes, snapping a picture.

Eddie rolls his eyes as soon as he notices, but he’s still smiling.

“Now one with that cute little frown,” Richie says, and Eddie acquiesces by accident.

Richie slides the phone over a minute later.

_Perks of dating me: Free tickets to all of Richie Tozier’s stand-up; better jokes than Richie Tozier; free, unsolicited deep cleaning of your apartment; and a medical knowledge to rival most doctors. I analyse risks for a living, so if you’re a serial killer, I will know. Serial killers, swipe left._

Eddie reads out the last line. “’P.S., Don’t let the chair fool you, I could still fucking bench press you.’ Is this the level of aggression you put into _your_ profile?”

“It’s the level of aggression you normally show me,” Richie says. “Don’t want to give them a false impression.”

A Tinder notification pops up. Eddie really doesn’t want to deal with that right now.

“Hey,” he says, to distract them both. “How come _you_ never did this?”

Richie blinks. “Uh. I _have_ done this.”

“No. Not the online dating thing. The outing yourself at a TGI Fridays thing.”

“Oh.” says Richie. He moves his fork around his empty plate. “Uh.”

“I know I’m making it about me,” Eddie says, “and the one rule is that you’re not supposed to make it about you, but fuck it, this is technically _my_ coming out, so. Was it really easier to tell a hundred strangers than it was to tell us?”

Richie shrugs. “Kinda. I don’t know, Eds. When I rip the bandaid off, I don’t want to look at what’s underneath.”

“What?” Eddie asks, playing cat and mouse with Richie’s gaze. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Don’t know,” Richie says, finally meeting his eyes with a too-bright smile. “Did it sound deep though?”

Eddie frowns.

“Ok. Listen. I know I’m not Bev. But if something’s bothering you, we can _talk_ about it.” He keeps noticing times when Richie looks…not sad, exactly, but _wistful_ , or _melancholy_ , or _something._

“Nothing’s bothering me.”

Eddie sighs, and tries again. “I like that you don’t treat me like I’m tragic. But. You don’t have to circle back the other way and do this Stepford Wife thing. You don’t have to pretend to be happy all the time just to keep me happy.”

“Eddie,” Richie says seriously. “I am happy. Maybe-maybe this isn’t what you want to hear right now, but you’re _alive_ , so. I’m really fucking happy.”

Eddie doesn’t know if it is what he wants to hear, can’t separate the warm threads of excitement and bitterness that travel up his spine. It’s kind of miraculous, that he’s enough to make Richie happy, and it’s so unfair. It’s so unfair that Richie gets to be happier that Eddie’s alive than Eddie is. He’s not the one who has to deal with the consequences of it.

“Eddie,” Richie says, eyes on him now, chewing on his lip, “Are _you_ -”

“You wanna head home?” Eddie asks, before Richie can finish that sentence.

They get back to Eddie’s, and Richie hovers by the door just long enough that Eddie feels guilty, and invites him in.

There’s some old sitcom on TV that neither of them are really watching.

Eddie’s too wrapped up in his own thoughts. Spiralling a little, if he’s being honest.

And Richie just keeps looking over at him. Sneaking worried glances every 3 seconds.

Eddie manages to ignore it for about 2 minutes. Then Richie looks over again.

Every time someone looks at him like that, with that _concern_ , he’s 13 again, waiting for them to drag him to the doctor’s, or keep him in bed for a week.

He turns to Richie, and Richie immediately looks back at the TV, and something inside Eddie breaks.

“Can you _stop_ fucking looking at me like I’m broken? What happened to just being happy I’m alive?”

Richie drags his lip through his teeth. Quieter than he ever is, he says, “That only works if you’re happy about it too, Eds.”

He knows it shouldn’t make him angry. Knows he should be grateful someone cares, but he’s _trying_ to be happy _._ He’s _trying_ and he’s so sick of people who’ve never even had a papercut telling him he should _try hypnosis and meditation and yoga and peppermint tea and just cheer up! Embrace life! If you have to be disabled, don’t bum us the fuck out. Be happy and friendly and grateful and wheel up Mt fucking Everest and pretend that proves something._

“…Is that why we’ve been hanging out so much lately? You need me to be ok so you can stop feeling guilty?”

Richie’s eyes go wide. “I need you to be ok because _I need you to be fucking ok_.”

“Well,” Eddie says bleakly, “guess I’m ok, then.”

Richie draws into himself, immediately, shoulders up by his ears. “That’s not what I meant, Eddie-”

“Can you just. Go? Please?” Eddie asks. It’s not Richie he’s angry at, not really, but if he stays here, he doesn’t know how he’s gonna direct it anywhere else.

There’s a few seconds of silence, then a long breath out from Richie. “Ok,” he says quietly. He looks between Eddie and his wheelchair. “Do you want me to..?”

“I’ve got it.”

Eddie doesn’t look at him. Just hears the door shutting. Not slamming. Closing softly, cautiously, meekly. It’s worse, somehow.

Eddie wakes up early enough to watch the sunrise the next morning.

Enjoys it. He likes to wake up for the sunrise, tallies it up in his head as one of the good parts of the day. 

He waits until he knows Richie will be awake to dial his number.

“Hey. I’m sorry for being a dick,” Eddie says as soon as he picks up. It’s vitally important to not give Richie time to speak if you want to get something out. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I was just frustrated.”

“It’s ok,” Richie says, sounding relieved. “You weren’t a-”

“Don’t say I wasn’t a dick. I was a dick.”

“Ok, well. As someone who happens to _like_ dick-”

“Jesus,” Eddie says, swallowing down a laugh. “Shut up.”

Richie does, for once. Eddie doesn’t know how to possibly segue into it, so he takes a breath in and blurts out, “I _am_ glad I’m alive. By the way.”

There’s a little sliver of silence, then Richie says, “If I knew all it took was a dick joke-”

“No,” Eddie says, grinning, “it was you shutting the fuck up.”

“…Bad news,” Richie says. “You might have to invest in a ball gag.”

“Gross. Are you free tonight?”

“Let me just check my calendar and-ok, as long as this hangout doesn’t stretch into August, I should be good.”

“Streaming Eurovision at my place?” Eddie asks.

“Ok, that might actually stretch into August,” Richie says. “But yes.”

“Here we have the Lithuanian entry,” Richie says in his best presenter voice, “Which asks the question: ‘What would happen if the BDSM scene and the dairy industry put aside their differences, and made beautiful art together?’”

“They would get kicked out in the semi-final,” Eddie says confidently.

“Fighting words, from the man who bet on the UK.”

It’s good while it lasts, sitting on the couch, eating popcorn, conscientiously not mentioning anything serious, and pretending everything is normal again.

But when Eddie turns to take bets on how many layers of tearaway clothing Latvia’s entry is wearing, Richie’s eyes are already on him.

Richie coolly looks backs at the TV, like he’s being fucking subtle.

“You really don’t have to keep monitoring me,” Eddie says. He tries to keep his tone light. He’s not angling for another fight.

“I wasn’t-”

“I’m not mad about it. I just-I promise I’m ok,” Eddie says. “I’m just adjusting.”

There’s a brief silence, and Eddie’s not sure he’s being very convincing, so he adds, “I’m better, really. I mean. You didn’t see me _before_ Derry.”

It’s meant to be a joke, but it just makes Richie look at him like his teeth are being pulled, sans anaesthetic. So Eddie rethinks what he’s trying to say, how to put it all into words.

“Before, it was like…It was like having a 27 year cold. Like I couldn’t really taste anything. And then all of a sudden it clears. And the first thing I eat is a fucking lemon. A fucking bunch of them, actually, but at least I can taste them, right? And maybe I’m not used to that but I-I think it’s good.” He pointedly looks away from Richie. “Cause it means I can taste the sweeter things too.” He wrinkles his nose at himself. “Did that make any sense?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, and it’s almost a whisper. “That makes a lot of sense.”

His eyes are wide, and Eddie can see the rise and fall of his chest, and it kind of makes him want to- _distract himself, Jesus._

“So,” Eddie says, chucking a cushion at Richie. “Don’t fucking worry about me, deal?”

“Deal,” says Richie. He wraps his arms around the cushion.

They turn their attention back to the movie, except. Except that now Eddie can’t stop glancing at Richie, like it’s a fucking contagious habit. And every time it happens, Richie’s head starts to turn, almost imperceptibly, but his hands clutch at the diagonal corners of the cushion before it goes any further. And Eddie really hopes that Richie doesn’t think he’s being _tested_ , because _Jesus fucking Christ,_ but also, he can’t really stop. _Because he’s a huge fucking hypocrite._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The introvert's nightmare, praying-lady-with-no-boundaries is based on an anecdote from a [Squirmy and Grubs](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCdomP1JqhnyBQGaBmfDl4KQ) video.


	9. Chapter 9

_In some ways_ , Eddie thinks, _him and Richie are just bound to frustrate each other._

Richie wants to give everyone what they want. All the time. And Eddie is trying to figure out what the fuck he wants. Realising that half his hopes contradict the other half.

He doesn’t want pity, but he can’t stop himself complaining. He doesn’t want people to treat him any differently. But he’s certain Richie wouldn’t visit this much if everything was okay, and he needs him here, as much as he can get.

He doesn’t want his life to be in the hands of carers and doctors, but at some point he has to accept that some part of it is probably always going to be bound up in tests and appointments.

Richie, on the other hand, seems to think there are two steps to the process of figuring out life: interrogate Eddie until he finds out exactly what he wants; then make everything perfect.

“How’s Cassie?” Richie asks, flinging his fork all over the place as he eats his pasta. “You liking Cassie?”

“Cassie’s nice,” Eddie says, looking round the café, hoping a change of conversation will magically show up. “You know, she’s cool. She’s as good as she can be.”

Richie raises an eyebrow. “As good as she can be? The fuck does that mean?”

“It’s not like she’s doing anything wrong. She just. She _has_ to Sonia me. It’s her job.”

Richie stops eating, and eyes him, concerned.

“Does she keep you from going out?”

“What? No.”

“Overmedicate you?”

“No.”

“Isolate you?”

“Ok, I see where you’re going with this-”

“Keep a drawer full of my underwear?”

“…Beep beep, Richie.”

Richie shrugs. “I’m just saying. She doesn’t remind _me_ of my ex-lover. Maybe you just have a problem with people taking care of you.”

Eddie’s mouth twists. “Easy to say when you can take care of yourself.”

Richie laughs. For a long time. “Eddie. Do you have any idea how many panicked voicemails I’ve left my manager? ‘I’m wasted, I’m at a gay bar, I’ve lost my keys-‘“

“-And I’m new in town?”

Richie beams at him, and knocks his foot under the table. “I _knew_ you listened to my comedy recs, you little liar.”

“People _like_ taking care of you,” Eddie argues. “You’re uh. Fun to be around?” _Jesus. That was painful to say out loud._

“People like taking care of you,” Richie says. “Too much, sometimes. It’s like they see those cute little button cheeks and they just can’t help themselves.”

Eddie bats away Richie’s hands as he tries to pinch Eddie’s cheeks. “Button cheeks? It’s-It’s a button _nose,_ you idiot.”

“No,” Richie says. “You have the nose of a sexy Roman dictator. It’s definitely the cheeks.”

“That’s not-” Eddie sighs. “Whatever.”

_Maybe it’s not so bad, trying to fix everything. Maybe if you pound at enough walls you find out some of them have secret doors._

“Ok,” Eddie says, things that have been percolating for the past few weeks coming to the surface, “So. Let’s say you’re right. That I’m just. Overreacting. At everything-”

Richie frowns. “I don’t think I said-”

“-And I don’t know how to stop, because dependence always starts to feel like backsliding, and-God, I don’t know Richie, just. Do you think I need therapy?”

Richie lets out a startled laugh. “Uh. I really don’t think I’m the person to ask. I’m pretty sure the APA can legally put out a hit on me if I offer psychological advice to anyone. You know, for the good of humanity.”

“I think I need therapy. My doctor thinks I need therapy. I feel like I just need someone else to tell me to get therapy.” Eddie looks up at Richie meaningfully.

“Eddie. You need therapy.”

Eddie smiles. It’s silly, but Richie telling him things he already knows just makes something click in his brain.

_And with that, they’ve had just about enough earnestness for one conversation._

“Fuck you. Where do you get off, telling people they need therapy?” He flicks a straw wrapper at Richie.

“You’re such an _asshole_ ,” Richie says, beaming and flicking the wrapper back at his face. “Your therapist’s gonna need so much counselling.”


	10. Chapter 10

Richie’s staring at a screen, waiting for inspiration, when his phone lights up with a call from Eddie.

_Perfect timing._

“Richie?” comes Eddie’s voice through the phone. “I don’t know what to do. _Someone_ fucked up, I’ve gone past the stop and there wasn’t a ramp-”

“Eddie.” Richie interrupts. “Just. Slow down.”

“Great,” says Eddie. “I’ll speak at a pace you can understand, and maybe by the time you catch up I’ll be in Wisconsin.”

“So. You’re on the train? Which stop is next?”

“Whichever stop comes after my stop!” There’s a long breath out, then, “Sorry. Um. Please don’t hang up.”

Richie starts looking up transit maps. “On these dulcet tones? You’re kidding”

Eddie doesn’t retaliate. Not a great sign.

“Ok,” Richie says, “I’m aiming a couple stations ahead, just to be safe. Text me your carriage number when you work it out, and me and an apologetic transit officer will meet you there.”

There’s a brief silence, then, “You’re gonna pick me up?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Richie. “Unless this was just a courtesy call? _I’m trapped on public transport, how’s your day going?_ ”

“Oh.” says Eddie. “No, uh, that’d be good. Thank you.”

“Cya soon Eds.”

Eddie looks a little calmer than he sounded on the phone. He doesn’t even yell at the transit officer who helps him out of the vestibule.

But his face is pinched, and as soon as it’s just the two of them on the station, he says. “I’m sorry. This was so stupid, making you come all this way, I should’ve just called Cassie or something, fuck, I don’t know why-”

Richie thinks he knows why, childhood memories coming back in swathes.

_I couldn’t get out of my room all night. This morning she said the lock was broken. Made me promise never to lock my door, in case it happened again. I’m scared, Richie._

Richie kneels down, squeezes a hand around his bicep. “Hey, hey, Eds, it’s ok. I meant it when I said you could call me whenever.”

Eddie’s eyes won’t stay fixed on Richie, they keep darting all over the place. “We handled serial killers, I don’t know why I can’t handle my fucking day-to-day life-”

“You did handle it. You handled it, Eds.”

“Everyone else got braver. Everyone else can handle their shit, now.”

“Can we?” asks Richie, “Because I remember calling you at 3 am last week just to make sure you still hadn’t been impaled by a clown.”

“…That’s different,” Eddie says, but at least he’s meeting Richie’s eyes now.

Richie smiles and pats Eddie’s arm before standing up. “There’s a gelateria like one block from here. Let’s get something to eat.”

Eddie audibly exhales. “You don’t have to do that. I’m good from here.”

But Richie is intent on getting him back to his regular state of annoyance. He’s not as good at puppy-dog eyes as Eddie, but he tries, pouting all the while. “But I want ice-cweam, Eddie. Don’t make me twy all the samples _awone_.”

“Never do that fucking voice again, Richie.” _There we go._

“Which fwavour should I get? Bwue waspberry? Owange?”

“The last shreds of respect I had for you are disintegrating with every word you speak,” Eddie says, overtaking him as they head out.

“You used to wespect me? That’s so embawassing for you.”

Sitting at a homey checkered table at a nearby ice cream parlour, Richie thinks _Bwue waspberry is delicious._

Eddie gets vanilla, which Richie makes a record eight jokes about in order to distract himself from the spear of Eddie’s tongue sliding up his scoop. He had been counting on Eddie being a bite-directly-into-ice cream kind of sociopath, but no, he sticks to kitten licks, just like he used to whenever Richie bought him a cone.

“You eat ice cream with way too much precision, dude.”

“I’m sorry I don’t go at it like a dog with a water bowl. You’re making it look like you haven’t eaten in weeks.”

“It’s the technique I use on your m-” Richie manages to get out, before Eddie knocks his hand, sending his ice cream directly onto his face.

“Oops.” Eddie beams, and licks his ice-cream.

Richie, in lieu of a napkin, licks up as much as he possibly can. Eddie says the requisite “You’re disgusting,” but tragically Richie can’t get his tongue _up_ his nostrils, thus destroying the possibility of inducing screeching.

Eddie props his head up on his free hand, head tilted, just gazing at Richie with this smile.

“What?” Richie asks weakly, ice cream starting to drip down his hand.

“Your _face_ , dude,” Eddie says, handing Richie his napkin. “It’s like a blue milk moustache.”

“Just like I’d get after going down on-”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie interrupts. “You have no short-term memory. If this was an experiment, you’d be the rat who keeps running _towards_ the electric shock.”

Richie, currently watching the crinkles at the corners of Eddie’s eyes, thinks that may be a little more apt than intended.

Instead, he says, “That’s just a Pavlovian response. See, there was a setup just like that in your mother’s-”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Eddie says, laughing in sheer incredulity. “Broken fuckin’ record,” he says fondly, and goes back to Looking.

Richie, who isn’t allowed to look like that, focusses instead on both of their ice creams melting down their hands. But even that, the fact that Eddie isn’t immediately reaching for wet wipes, it makes his legs go jellied under the table.

He’d lick the drips from each of Eddie’s long fingers if he could, but he knows instinctively that he couldn’t get Eddie clean. He can only ever muddy him up. It’s good for him, in small doses, but not for everyday. Everyone likes to feel clean sometimes.

Richie would like to feel clean.

Richie’s trying to feel clean.

Eddie does eventually reach into his fanny pack to pull out a wet wipe, running it over each of his fingers. Then he pulls out another one to offer Richie.

“No need,” Richie says, “I can fit my whole fist in my mouth. It’s a much more effective method.”

Richie was expecting yelling, but Eddie’s eyes just bug out for a second, before he throws the wipe at Richie’s face.

“I know you’re new to the gay scene,” Eddie says, “but that’s not what fisting is.”

Richie snorts, surprised. “Oh, well, if our resident gay shaman says so…”

But he picks up the wet wipe, wipes it over his hands, and throws it back to Eddie.

Eddie’s eyes just get wider, like he wasn’t expecting Richie to actually take it.

Richie feels himself tense, back arching against the chair like he’s being tied to it.

Usually, talking to Eddie has a kind of novel comfort to it, like trying every meal at your favourite diner. Now Richie’s struck by the uncomfortable sensation of driving to Five Guys’, and turning up at an actual restaurant, one where Richie doesn’t know which fork to use, or what to say about the wine.

It was a bad idea to be the guy who pretends to know. He always prefers a scene.

He rapidly stuffs half his ice cream cone into his mouth.

“Oh, there he is,” Eddie says dryly.

_And they’re back._


	11. Chapter 11

_Progress isn’t linear_ , Eddie tells himself, approximately 300 times. It’s his new therapist’s catchphrase.

Eddie has a feeling his progress is particularly curvy.

Things had really been looking up, and then the train incident happened. And then he didn’t leave the house all weekend.

He forces himself to go to the park. Checks he has his keys 3 times, but he does it, and ends up sitting by the lake, feeling a placid kind of pride.

He’s scrolling Facebook aimlessly when he sees he’s been invited to an event.

_Ben and Bev’s Christmas Party_

He watches, in real time, as it gets hastily updated to read _Ben and Bev’s Christmas/Hanukkah Party._

 _If this is a Hanukkah celebration, I’m assuming the challah will be provided?_ Stan comments.

 _Is that the circumcision knife?_ Richie writes underneath.

 _You being Jewish does not make that joke any funnier_ , Stan responds.

 _I’m a heathen_ , Richie responds. _And I’m a little disappointed that my demographic wasn’t represented in the event title._

The event name is rapidly changed to _Ben and Bev’s Christmas/Hanukkah/Godless Hedonism Party_

Eddie’s a little jealous.

It’s a dinner party. So, Eddie can stay over, ask his friends to help with every little step in getting up in the morning, go through the hassle and embarrassment he really doesn’t want to go through. Or ask Cassie to drive him home at 1 am.

Even if he works out something with public transport, he doesn’t want to be stranded on a train in the middle of the night, when the rest of the world’s asleep.

He clicks _Can’t go._

His phone immediately lights up with a message from Richie.

_Promise to skip the circumcisions if you come._

_I’m sick_ , Eddie writes back, because he has a feeling, if he uses any other excuse, Richie will find a way to convince him.

_We’re all sick, that’s where the hedonism comes in._

Eddie does not deign to respond. Even as his phone lights up with several dozen sad face emojis.

Eddie spends Christmas at home. The Losers try to videocall him, and, in a panic over the general awkwardness of the whole situation, he declines. Richie keeps texting him though, little updates like _Turns out Bill was puking up cranberry sauce, not blood. Celebrations all around_ and _Watching_ It’s a Wonderful Life _while playing Fuck/Marry/Kill. Thoughts on Jimmy Stewart???_

Richie, several hours later, and, presumably, much drunker, texts, _U hav amy boxing day plans Edster?_

 _Depends what you’re about to ask me to do,_ Eddie responds.

 _I’m coming to visit you babyyyyyy_ , Richie writes back.

 _What time?_ Eddie texts, but Richie has, apparently, fallen asleep.

Richie shows up at his door around 8 o’clock the next day.

“Hey Eds,” he says, trying to ruffle Eddie’s hair while he ducks. “You don’t _look_ sick.”

“Miraculous last-minute recovery.”

“That _is_ the reason for the season,” he says, dodging past Eddie’s wheelchair to make his way inside.

“…You’re thinking of Easter. You know, your godless hedonism is really showing.”

Richie puts a bunch of gift bags on the coffee table as Eddie follows him over. “Speaking of. You got any whiskey? I could do with a hot toddy.”

“I have white wine spritzers. And there’s leftovers in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

Richie makes a face, but heads to the kitchen, coming back to the living room with two cans, which he puts on the table.

Richie inclines his head towards the couch and Eddie nods, and it’s not long before Richie is lifting him up.

_So, maybe he hasn’t told Richie he can handle the couch on his own yet. Maybe he’s been noticing things lately. Testing hypotheses._

“I come bearing gifts,” Richie says, putting Eddie down and curling up next to him. “Obviously mine’s the best, and should be opened first.” He reaches into one of the bags on the table, and brings out a candy-striped package.

Eddie’s mouth twists as he rests his forehead on his hands. “I’m such an asshole,” he mumbles.

Richie stares, dumbfounded. “What?”

He lifts his head. “I didn’t buy anyone anything, Richie. I didn’t even forget, I just…didn’t want to leave the house. I didn’t think you’d get me anything, if I wasn’t coming-”

“Eds,” Richie says helplessly. “Eddie, it’s fine. I don’t even know why we _do_ gifts, honestly, it’s just a bunch of rich assholes buying each other things we already have. I got 3 juicers, Eds. That’s 3 more juicers than I ever wanted.”

Eddie smiles weakly at him. He looks at the completely flat present Richie is holding.

“I _hope_ that’s a juicer,” he mumbles.

“Oh, it’s _so_ much worse.” Richie hands it over with a tentative smile.

Eddie takes the sticky tape off first, neatly unfolding the paper. He lets out an involuntary snort when he sees the shirt inside. It reads:

_YES, I’m a risk analyst_

_YES, I’m 4”3_

_YES, I love spaghetti_

_We exist!_

Richie sent him about 300 pictures of oddly specific shirts in the last month. He probably should’ve seen this coming.

“Just what I’ve always wanted.”

Richie looks deeply relieved that he has not made the situation worse. “Does that mean you’re going to wear it every time you go out?”

“It’ll be my preferred undershirt,” Eddie says.

He unwraps the rest of his presents.

All in all, he gets one more juicer than Richie.

“Did you guys seriously not think to correspond about what you were getting each other? Or do a Kris Kringle?”

“See, this is why we need you!” Richie says. “You gonna bring your organisational skills to the New Year’s Party?”

Eddie shakes his head. “Stuff at night is too difficult, Richie. Sleeping over is a whole fucking rigmarole-”

Richie mouths the word _rigmarole_ at him and he rolls his eyes.

“-and so is getting transport home-”

“I’ll drive you back,” Richie says. “At 7 o’clock sharp. I know that’s your bedtime.”

“Then we both miss half the party.”

“Eddie. I think it’s only fair to let you know that if you _don’t_ come, I _will_ be calling you 'Spaghetti-head' for the next year.”

Eddie narrows his eyes. It's not a bluff he's willing to call.


	12. Chapter 12

“I still can’t believe Bill’s _books_ paid for this,” Richie says incredulously, looking around at the decked-out rooftop. There’s an infestation of fairy lights, three couches, one of which Richie and Eddie somehow managed to get to themselves, and a manned bar in the corner.

Richie had made an executive decision to order two Sex in the Driveway cocktails (purely for the name, Eddie assumes), and Eddie had made an executive decision not to get distracted by his now-bright blue tongue.

Richie leans over the edge of the couch to pluck the pizza box from the hands of Bev, who flips him the bird. Ben, Bev, Stan and Patty are all squished into the middle couch, with Mike and Bill on the other.

Eddie considers pointing out how dumb it is, that they’re all too lovesick to just split into threes and be done with it, packing themselves like sardines instead.

Then he remembers being 13, and it being vitally important to squeeze two people into a one-person hammock in order to “prove a point”. And thinks better of opening his mouth.

He looks over at Richie, who is currently taking a bite of his pizza, utterly incapable of detaching the mozzarella from the rest of the slice. Eventually, he gives up, and shoves the entire thing in his mouth, chewing forcefully.

_Fucking idiot_ , Eddie thinks fondly. Richie catches his eye and grins, mouth full.

“You’re a monster.”

Richie mumbles his way through a protest while chewing. Eddie knows it’s meant to provoke a reaction, but, if he’s being honest, he’s feeling a little too peaceful to lash out.

He kind of just wants to kiss Richie. Even his pizza mouth. He’d get to lick clean that little schmear of tomato paste just above his lip.

_Jesus. There’s definitely something wrong with him._

Still, the countdown to 12 is creeping up on them, and, inevitably, there’s going to be an awkward moment where half the Losers are making out, and they’re staring into space. _Maybe he **should** try something?_ _He definitely shouldn’t try something. But maybe he should try something?_

Richie turns to Eddie. “Are we gonna take bets on whether Bill and Mike lock lips, or what?”

Eddie stares at him. “Bill and Mike. You think Bill and Mike are going to…”

“You know you can’t get mono from _saying_ the word ‘kiss’, right?”

“Fuck you. I just didn’t know they were… _Are_ they…”

“Again with pregnant pauses. Are they what? Gay? Bi? Dating? I don’t know. All I know is that Mike invests more time in reading Bill’s books than any sane, straight person chooses to.”

“People _read_ Bill’s books?” Eddie asks, which makes Richie’s laughter scatter into the air.

“5 seconds!” Bev yells.

Eddie looks over to the others. Ben is looking at Bev with stars in his eyes.

Patty is running her fingers through Stan’s hair, while Richie makes faces at her and she makes faces right back.

B is half-asleep, so Eddie thinks that kiss from Mike is doubtful.

“And kiss!” Bev yells, and pulls Ben into a smooch.

Patty cradles Stan’s face to draw him in. It’s half-hidden, but Eddie’s pretty sure Mike is pressing a brief, chaste kiss to Bill’s forehead.

Eddie turns to Richie, about to concede that he might be right, but Richie’s already looking at him.

“For tradition?” Richie asks, and Eddie thinks he knows what he’s asking.

It’s definitely a bit. Or a way to feel a little less single while they’re surrounded by the handsiest set of 40 year-olds in the state.

Still, it makes his pulse pick up.

“Ok.” he says. “Tradition.”

Eddie takes the initiative. Takes hold of a surge of courage and runs with it, pressing his mouth to Richie’s. He’s a little startled by the cold lens of Richie’s glasses against his cheek, and shifts, resting the tips of his fingers along his stubbled jaw. Gives himself a second to take it in, kissing Richie fucking Tozier, right on his soft but severely under-chapsticked lips.

Then he pulls back. This is, after all, supposed to be perfunctory.

Richie blinks, looking a little like he did when he dropped from the Deadlights, and that’s when Eddie realises. He’s sort of angled towards the couch.

Like he was aiming for Eddie’s cheek.

And Eddie remembers. New Year celebrations at 13, and 14, and 15 years old. Richie planting a sloppy kiss on Eddie’s cheek as Eddie shoved at him. _For tradition, Eduardo, for tradition!_

_Well. He’s fucked this up immeasurably._

Eddie’s not sure if he can talk right now. He’s fairly certain that if he did, whatever came out his mouth would not be strategic.

So he looks to Richie instead. Richie knows how to fix things.

His jaw flexes as his mouth shuts. He swallows twice. Wets his lips and says, in the smallest of voices, “No tongue? It’s Christmas, Eds. Season of _giving_?”

_Aaand we’re playing along. Like this is all totally normal._

“It’s New Year’s Eve, dipshit.” Eddie says, and pivots his head back to the skies. There are distant fireworks sparking across them, but he can’t focus.

He’s back in that fucking well of high school memories.

_Richie distracting him in the middle of Sex Ed. Speaking every unfortunate combination of those words to make Eddie blush and shove him._

_The teacher._ “ _Apparently Edward doesn’t see the need to concentrate. Perhaps he knows it all already? Or maybe he just doesn’t think he’s going to **use** any of this.”_

_Titters from the class._

_“So, Mr Kaspbrak, our resident expert, how should we label this area right here?”_

_Eddie had gotten redder by the second, staring at a notch on his desk. His mother had ripped out those pages of his textbook._

_And then Richie had shoved his own hand up, and shrieked, “The love button!”_

The class had tittered, both of them had gotten detention, and Eddie had felt like he owed Richie his life.

Richie was always doing stuff like that, though. Out-embarrassing anyone who had the misfortune to humiliate themselves.

Meeting an unwanted kiss with a joke. Punting the power balance out of his hands as quickly as possible. Eddie’s never met anyone who’s so averse to having the upper hand. He supposes it comes with being a good person.

Because Richie is a good person. To everyone, really.

Which makes it painfully difficult to distinguish what he’s ever really feeling.

_Richie is feeling sort of achy all over, but it’s fine! Eddie gave him a pity kiss, and he tried to angle for more and Eddie’s not having any of it, but that’s fine! It’s not like he’s any worse off than he was an hour ago. Better, actually, because now he has the most fucking vivid sense memory he’s ever gonna get, and it’s going to have a starring role in his daydreams until the end of time._

_So. Buck the fuck up and break the tension._

“Any New Year’s Resolutions?”

“To not turn into my mother,” Eddie says, half-serious. “I’m already sweating self-pity at this point. If I start complaining about the youth, just brain me.”

Richie blinks at him. “Eds. As someone who knew Mrs K _very_ well-”

Eddie groans pointedly.

“-you’re nothing like her.” _Although Richie may not be the best judge. At this point, Eddie trying out muumuus and watching_ Days of Our Lives _probably wouldn’t change how Richie feels one iota._

Eddie gives him an unconvincing smile as his fingers drum against his knee

 _Try again._ “I um. I used to think you were a changeling.” Everything about Eddie made sense if he didn’t belong to Sonia Kaspbrak. And everything about Richie made sense if Eddie wasn’t a _real_ boy.

When he gathers up the courage to look at Eddie, the edges of his face are barely bracketing his grin.

“Dude. You know that’s _not_ what Bowers meant when he called us fairies, right?”

“You sure? Cause from where I’m standing, it looks like you cursed the shit out of him.”

“I think that was you, Rich.”

“You enchanted me,” Richie says, camp as he can muster, a Paul Lynde twang on the words. He curls up on his side, facing Eddie, _all part of method acting_ , “I was in your thrall.” _Bad. Bad idea. Why are you doing this now?_

But Eddie just smiles and shakes his head. “As if you’ve ever followed orders.”

Richie opens his mouth, several retorts on his lips, and Eddie, pre-emptively, says “ _Don’t_.”

Richie grins at him. “Yes Officer Kaspbrak. Whatever you say, Officer Kaspbrak.”

Eddie shakes his head, pink cheeks. “Either way,” he says. “I know-I know I’ve been kinda…difficult, this year.”

Richie snorts. “You’re always difficult.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m serious. You keep acting like you’ve changed for the worst, but you’re-you’re just you.”

“Oh, thanks. 40 is the perfect age to learn I’ve always been a dick.”

Richie smiles at that, but he takes a little pause, and says, “You know you’re only made up of good things, right, Eds?”

Eddie remembers learning, one day in high school, that there’s about a tonne of air pressure weighing down everyone on earth. He’d spent the next week convinced he could feel it.

He’d gotten over it, eventually. But there are moments when Richie says something, and he’s right back there again.

_Brush it the fuck off, Eddie. You’ve already assaulted him once tonight._

He puts on a beleaguered smile and asks, “Can you tell my therapist that?”

Richie snorts. “If you tell mine.” Then it sinks in, and he hits Eddie’s stomach.

“ _Ow_ , what-”

“You actually got a fucking therapist?”

Eddie rolls his eyes a little. “I actually got a fucking therapist.”

“Dude! Now I have an audience for all my therapy jokes.”

“That’s exactly why I was putting it off.”

Richie grins. “I’m proud of you, man. For everything.”

 _I’m proud of you, man_ does not mean _t_ _ake me_. In fact, _I’m proud of you, man_ , is possibly the least sexual sentence ever concocted, but, somehow, that does not prevent Eddie’s brain from fucking running with it.

“Thanks Rich,” he says. Aims for earnest. Not too earnest. Because _Thanks Rich_ , does, in fact, mean _t_ _ake me._


	13. Chapter 13

They’re barely a fortnight into the new year when Richie gets a call from Bev. He picks it up, expecting it’s going to be about her upcoming nuptials (which inevitably leads to gentle admonishment about his lack of taste); or Eddie (which inevitably leads to gentle admonishment about his lack of chutzpah).

Instead, he gets a half-screeched, “ _Guess who has a toddler running around their house?!_ ”

Richie grins, and holds the phone just a smidge further from his ear. “I’m gonna assume you’re talking about the arrival of your adopted daughter, and not a demonic entity?”

“Does it have to be one or the other?” She breaks immediately. “No, she’s beautiful. She’s perfect, Rich.”

“I’m so happy for you, Bev. You’re gonna be the coolest mum ever.”

“Believe it or not, being cool was not a point the social workers emphasised.”

“And yet, it’s the most important part of being a parent. Hey, am I gonna get a chance to meet this little demon?”

“That’s what I’m calling about! Ok, so. Is it still a baby shower if it happens 3 years after birth?”

Richie goes with Eddie, who’s chewing on his lip the entire car ride. Richie can’t imagine that he’s any good with kids, but he’s very excited about finding out just how terrible he is.

Ben greets them at the door, beaming but looking a little sheepish. “So. Amethyst is feeling a little shy. But Bev is talking to her, and I’m sure she’s gonna come out of her room eventually.”

“When my parents wanted me to come downstairs, they always opened a packet of Fritos,” Richie says helpfully. “Let the smell waft upwards.”

“Don’t listen to Richie,” Eddie says. “Bribing your child with food is a terrible idea.”

“…Thanks guys,” Ben says. “You’ve been a big help.”

They head into the living room, where Bill, Mike, Stan and Patty have already stolen the couch.

They all get up to greet them, then quickly retake the couch before Richie can intercede.

He sighs and looks at Eddie. “Guess it’s come down to this. Who’s gonna sit on whose lap?”

“I’m never gonna laugh at that joke,” says Eddie.

“I’m happy to give up my seat,” Stan says. “But only for Eddie.”

“Perfect!” says Richie. “Then I’ll take the wheelchair.”

“You look at a shelf and it falls apart,” Eddie says. “I’m not letting you sit in this.”

Mike, edge of a smile on his face, says. “Looks like we’re at an impasse.”

Richie sighs, affecting a heartbroken look. “Just tell me where to dispose of my present and I’ll be on my merry way.”

“The presents are in the spare room,” Mike says, pointing down the hall.

“You couldn’t fit them in here? Rich assholes,” Richie mutters as he makes his way down the corridor.

Richie fits his relatively modest present on the table, surprised when Eddie pulls something out of the travel bag on his lap and adds it to the pile.

“…Rich. Why does your gift say it’s from both of us?”

“Uh.” Richie _had_ thought it’d be a nice gesture, in case Christmas repeated itself, but Eddie _had_ brought a present this time, and now he’s starting to wonder if it was a little bit insulting. “Didn’t want to take full blame for it?”

Eddie turns his chair around, wearing a knowing smile. “So what did we get?”

“Overalls.”

“Which say…?”

“Trashmouth Army’s Youngest Recruit.”

“Christ,” Eddie says, looking back at the table. “Do you have white-out?”

“For the clothes, or the label?”

“Either. Both.”

“Mm, let me ask Bev,” Richie says, backing out of the room, calling his bluff.

“Richie.” Eddie says, in a tone that says _Don’t go anywhere_ , and stops Richie like magic. “ _Thank you_.”

Richie’s insides melt like a grilled cheese and the urge to _speak speak speak just say something_ becomes unbearable. “You might want to hold off on the thanks until we see if Bev murders us both.”

“She’s not gonna murder the guy in a wheelchair,” Eddie says. “The optics on that are not good.”

“But I’m now publicly part of a minority group,” Richie says. “There’s never been a worse time to murder me. Like, 5 years ago everyone would’ve been chill with it. Now? You’d be surprised.”

Eddie cocks his head, giving him an assessing look that makes Richie dig his overgrown fingernails into his palm. “Hm. I don’t buy it. _I’d_ still murder you.”

“ _So_ sweet,” Richie says, hand on his chest, fluttering his lashes. Grateful to be given an excuse to move.

Eddie scoffs, and heads to the living room, elbowing Richie’s legs along the way.

Richie spots a chair in the corner of the room, and starts dragging.

Bev’s coming down the stairs once they’re back.

“Ok,” she says. “So, she’s coming down in a minute, but. I think she’d like it if everyone just…didn’t acknowledge her presence. At least at first.”

“Can’t relate,” Richie says immediately.

Eddie’s chewing his lip again. “I’m not good at ignoring people. I mean-we have to say ‘hi’, at least, right?”

“Let’s just be mid-conversation,” Mike says. “then it won’t be weird.”

“Mm. It’ll still be pretty weird,” Richie says.

“Conversation about what?” Eddie asks frantically. “What are we talking about?”

That’s when they hear the pitter patter of a girl in a purple dress and fairy wings from the top of the stairs.

Richie knows he can’t laugh right now, but he’s looking at Eddie’s face, frozen in fear, trying not to move his head one inch, and it’s taking all of his willpower not to break.

There’s a few seconds of silence.

“…Anyone see the _Joker_ movie?” Bill asks.

Richie just about manages to turn his laugh into a cough. “The _clown movie_? That came out a year ago? Loved it. Still think about it daily.”

“Ok,” Bill says, “Well…”

“You’re a _writer_. Have you seriously not seen any movies since 2019?”

“…I didn’t see that one.”

“Oh my _God_.”

“ _My_ favourite movie,” Patty says, “is _Toy Story_.”

It’s a valiant attempt that does not garner a response from Amethyst.

“To infinity and beyond,” Richie says, replete with the voice.

There’s a small giggle, and soon Amethyst is sitting on the floor by Richie, big brown eyes looking up at him. She tugs on his pant leg. “Do you do Woody?” Woody is my favourite.”

“Mine too,” Richie says wistfully. Eddie coughs loudly.

“Of course I can do Woody. You got any other requests?”

Amethyst tugs on his pant leg again when he’s halfway through an (unrequested) Vito Corleone.

“Do you wanna come play with me outside?”

“Sweetheart,” Bev says, “Don’t you want to play with everyone?”

“Eddie can come with me,” Richie says, “Make sure no one falls down a manhole or ingests worms.”

“That’s not what I was-“ Bev says, at the same time that Eddie says, “I don’t know if I-”

“Eddie can come,” Amethyst says, and that is that.

“Oh God,” Richie gasps, throwing himself on their grassy lawn. “What did you do to me? I’ve never been more aware of my spleen.”

Amethyst giggles, kneels next to him and slaps him on the arm.

“I’ll never mess with a pirate princess again,” Richie says. “Just let me go, please.”

He makes a long, gurgling dying noise as a series of light punches meet his abdomen.

“I’ll accept my fate,” he gasps. “Just let my accomplice go. Eddie. Get out of here. Before she _attacks you._ ”

Eddie and Amethyst make eye contact for a second, before she goes back to hitting Richie.

Eddie knows that Amethyst is not his biggest fan. Which is fine, honestly, it’s not like he’s under the illusion that he’s good with kids. But it seems like Richie’s made it his mission to build bridges.

“It’s fine,” Richie yells to him, “Don’t try to defend me or anything. Just make sure they bury my body in a Golden Corral parking lot.”

Eddie, dumbfounded, looks down at his chair, and up at Richie again. “How exactly am I supposed to defend you, dumba-“ His eyes meet Amethyst’s, which seem to be glaring at him. _Right. No swearing._ “…dummy?”

Richie lets out a death rattle. “The insults hurt even more than the grievous bodily harm.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Idiot.”

Amethyst stands up in a huff, and walks over, arms folded. “ _Stop that_ ,” she says firmly.

Eddie blinks. “Stop…what?”

“Being a bully! Say sorry to Richie. Or. Or you won’t get invited to mum’s wedding.”

Eddie gapes at the unfairness of it all. “I’m not a bully!” He looks to Richie for support, but Richie is too busy silently cracking up and being absolutely no help.

He attempts to defend himself. “Wh-You were _just_ fighting Richie!”

“We were _playfighting_ ,” Amethyst says, as if Eddie is a moron.

“Yeah, well. So were we.” Eddie regrets it as soon as he says it. _Just playfighting my 40 year-old male friend. No weird implications there._

Amethyst frowns. “You’re adults.”

Richie audibly snorts. Eddie struggles to keep all the blood going to his cheeks.

“Some of the time.” Richie says, and sits up to tug lightly on Amethyst’s ponytail. “He was just teasing, Ames. It’s like, uh. It’s like his love language. Physical violence and words of defamation.”

Amethyst perks up as soon as she hears the word “love”, like it all makes sense to her now. Eddie feels an immediate sense of dread.

She looks between the two of them. “Are you married?”

“No,” says Richie. “That’s not, uh. No.”

“You know you’re allowed to get married now,” she says helpfully.

“Yeah.” Richie grins at her. “I mean, I am.” He cocks his head. “Well, we both are, but…”

“But you’re not marrying each other?”

“No.” Eddie watches his Adam’s apple bob.

“Why not?”

There’s a brief silence. Richie shoots Eddie a helpless look for a second, then glances back at Amethyst.

“We’re not together,” Eddie says. _Best to deal in objective facts. If you don’t bring feelings into the equation, no one has to lie._

“My mummy said-”

“Your mum jokes around a lot,” Richie says quickly.

Clearly unperturbed by the interruption, Amethyst continues. “My mummy said I’d get to be the flowergirl at _her_ wedding.”

Richie welcomes the subject change with open arms, while Eddie wonders where he _thought_ that was going. “Eddie was flowergirl at his aunt’s wedding.”

“I was the fu- _udging_ ringbearer, asshole.”

Richie cocks his head, grinning, as Eddie realises he only got halfway with the self-censorship. _Goddammit._

“Eddie can’t be the ringbearer,” Amethyst says matter-of-factly. “My cousin is gonna be the ringbearer.”

“You hear that, Eddie? Better luck next time.”

Richie is taking full advantage of the fact that Eddie can’t swear at him or flip him the bird right now, shit-eating grin on full display.

So Eddie extends an olive branch instead. “Do you get to choose the flowers, Amethyst?”

Amethyst’s eyes widen. “I don’t know. I need to ask mummy.”

“Oh, no,” Eddie says. “That’s o-”

But she’s already darting inside.

“Perfect,” Eddie says dryly. “First she starts an anti-bullying campaign against me, then she flees.”

Richie grins at him. “You’re just too similar.”

Eddie glares. “If this is another crack about my fucking height-”

Richie snorts. “I mean, now that you mention it. No, Eds, you just both have rabid bulldog levels of protectiveness.”

“I’m gonna tell her you called her a rabid bulldog,” Eddie says. “I’m not afraid of playing dirty to get the upper hand.”

“Please, play dirty,” Richie says with a wink. “Of course,” he continues. “I might have to tell her you’ve been calling me names and trying to steal my lunch money.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Eddie says. Drinks in the way Richie looks right now, leaning back with his hands flat against the grass. Peaceful, but a little giddy. Sunshine suits him.

Suddenly, a panting Amethyst is in front of them. “I get to choose the flowers!” she says.

“I, for one, am _rabid_ with excitement,” Richie says.

And Eddie, unable to flip him the bird, ends up smiling at him instead.


	14. Chapter 14

Eddie’s invited Richie on a picnic.

Which, sure, is a bit more date-y than their regular haunts, but it’s not a date.

It’s just that Eddie thinks it’s good for him, being outside. Seems to make him happy, and his work day is usually 6 pm to 3 am so his Vitamin D levels are probably abysmal, and it’s shocking, frankly, that he doesn’t already have rickets, and his concern is for Richie’s health, first and foremost.

But if Richie thinks it’s a date, it’s not like Eddie’s gonna dissuade him.

Eddie eyes Richie absolutely going to town on some garlic bruschetta, and feels certain he does not think it’s a date.

“You shoul’ be a chef,” Richie says, mid-bite.

“I’ve watched too many documentaries on restaurant hygiene,” Eddie says, brushing crumbs off his jacket meaningfully.

“You know, when you said picnic,” Richie says, “I figured you meant like, sitting on the ground on a checkered tablecloth like a 1950s family.”

“They have perfectly good benches,” Eddie says, tapping on the wood slats. “Why would we sit on the ground?”

Richie grins at him.

There’s basil stuck in his teeth, and Eddie would still absolutely rail him.

It fucking sucks.

There’s a crack of thunder, like the skies know exactly what he’s thinking.

A droplet falls on Richie’s nose. Jumps to the crevice just above his lips, and Richie’s tongue darts out to grab it.

“Gross,” Eddie says, a beat too late. A drop glances off his ear. “Did you check the weather report before we came here?”

Richie looks at him.

“Oh, that was _my_ job?”

They’re making their way through the stormy streets when Richie’s hand latches around the fabric of his chair, just brushing against his hair.

“You don’t need to push me,” Eddie says, scowling. “It’s not a pram.”

“I’m not pushing you. You gotta lead me, Eddie, I can’t see a fucking thing.”

Eddie turns his head to see Richie. One hand clamped to the wheelchair. The other pulling at his sleeve, wiping it over his lenses every 2 seconds.

He chuckles.

Richie swipes at his glasses again. “Hey,” he says, mouth quirking up. “Don’t laugh at my disability.”

“Oh my God,” Eddie says, still laughing. “You’re the worst. Just. Hold on, dipshit.”

He speeds his way home, Richie holding on all the way.

Eddie’s apartment is, thankfully, warm.

“Turns out you’re a menace on the roads _and_ the streets,” Richie says as he runs a towel over his hair.

Eddie’s resolutely not looking at Richie’s wet hair. He refuses to.

“It’s not my fault you can’t keep up a normal pace. You’re freakishly tall, you’re supposed to be fast.”

Richie grins. “Not all of us did track in high school, Eddie.” He pauses. “You ever think about picking that up again?”

“…I can see some roadblocks in that plan.”

Richie throws the towel so it lands on Eddie’s head. Eddie scowls, but runs it over his hair. It smells of pomade, which is probably the last thing Eddie expected Richie’s hair to smell like.

“Wheelchair racing, dumbass. Transfer some of the energy you normally spend arguing with me.”

Eddie had jogged compulsively when he was with Myra. Left every problem in his dust for half an hour, and when he circuited back round to them, they seemed much smaller.

“…It’s not a terrible idea.”

“Oh my God. It’s working already.” 


	15. Chapter 15

“I haven’t dropped someone off at a group activity since…ever,” Richie says thoughtfully, tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I feel like I should be leaving little notes in your fanny pack. Telling you to have a good day at school.”

_The return of the fanny pack was one of the rare benefits of all of this. Eddie said it was too hard to rifle through his pockets while sitting down. Richie thinks he just wanted an excuse._

“I have a note for you,” Eddie says, and reaches into his little red fanny pack to pull out the middle finger.

Richie grins. “So, you ready?”

Eddie just looks out the window at the people assembled, then back down at his hands.

“Hey,” Richie says. “If the other kids make fun of your shorts-” 

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie says, “get me out of this car.”

Richie obliges.

Eddie joins the crowd, waving Richie off. A little aggressively.

Richie waves back. He’s not leaving just yet.

Eddie smiles, when he races. It’s nice.

And maybe a little bit sexy, seeing Eddie’s already outracing half the people there.

_Competitive fucker._

Richie’s close to yelling out encouragement (and/or booing the guy who just overtook him) when he realises, with a burgeoning sense of horror, that he’s really buying into this soccer mum role.

He promptly gets back in the car.

Eddie hangs around afterwards, chatting with some of the people there. A guy about 20 years younger with formidable biceps claps him on the back, and Eddie is immediately suspicious that he’s about to be scammed in some way.

He rethinks that when bicep guy turns out to be the painfully earnest type.

They could be friends, Eddie thinks. He had kind of given up on the concept of making new friends. His current bonds were formed in childhood trauma, demon-clown-murder, and secrets they would all take to the grave. All of which seriously limited the amount he could relate to anyone else.

It’s not that he’s changed his mind, exactly. He’s not about to spill his life story to Chas, and they definitely don’t have the kind of repartee he and Richie have, but it’s still _nice_. To have someone who doesn’t just coo sympathetically, but actually _gets_ what it’s like. To be reliant on someone, to be trapped, to have to consider a million little potentialities just to go to the park.

Still, he finds the corner of his mouth quirking up when he sees Richie’s car in the parking lot, because, apparently, he’s fucking never gonna get sick of him.

Richie hops out and leans against the car door, giving a little smile and wave when he sees Eddie.

_Cute cute cute._

“Hey,” Richie says as Eddie heads over. “Uh, do you want me to like, drive around the block really slowly, then come back?”

“What? Why?”

“Seemed like you and Buff McGee over there were really hitting it off.”

Eddie frowns. “We were just talking. Stop being weird. You weren’t this invested in my sex life when you thought I was straight.”

“Oh, Eddie,” Richie says in a pitying tone, “I never thought you were straight.”

“Fine,” Eddie says dryly. “You weren’t this invested in my sex life when it involved women.”

“You uncovered my secret,” Richie says. “I’m heterophobic.”

“I believe it,” Eddie says immediately.

Richie splutters an incredulous laugh.

“What?” Eddie asks. “Your old stand-up was like, _Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus: The CliffsNotes_. Your whole persona was what you’d end up with if you showed an alien _American Pie_ 18 times and then asked them to embody a straight man.”

“Minus the pie-fucking,” Richie says, just to watch Eddie make a dubious face.

“Ok, ok,” Richie says. “Multiply the pie-fucking.”

Eddie pulls another face, which is deeply unfair given that he’d basically just made the same joke. But Eddie always keeps everything Improper under a thin veneer. One that Richie can’t help but scratch at.

Richie drives him back to his place, and invites himself in, as he’s wont to do.

He’s in the middle of raiding the fridge when Eddie, riding high on endorphins and confidence, and not thinking entirely sensibly, says, “I bet I could win an arm wrestle _now_. Being in a wheelchair really helps with the whole upper-body strength thing.”

Richie spins around gleefully. He tosses a tub of baba ghanouj on the dining table, and sits opposite Eddie.

“Do we have to take our shirts off? Or was that optional?” He puts his elbow on the table, hand out.

Eddie goes pleasantly pink, but looks at him defiantly, locking palms. “If you go easy on me out of pity, I’m gonna kill you.”

“Eddie. I promise I will go rock-hard on you.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. Richie watches his muscles shift as they lock palms.

Richie’s hand hits the table with a _clunk,_ almost as soon as Eddie finishes counting down.

Eddie blinks, a little surprised despite himself, then grins.

Richie really should’ve thought this through. Really should’ve considered the impact Eddie ~~physically overpowering him~~ arm-wrestling him would have.

_It’s fine. Think of Pennywise. Amputated waists. Bloodied Eddies. Nope, too far the other way._

“Dude.” Eddie’s face is gradually shifting from pride to concern. “Did I hurt you? You’re really pale.”

“I think you broke my arm,” Richie says, but clearly his tone doesn’t land quite where he wants it to, because Eddie just looks more concerned, and it’s not long before his thin fingers are pulling free from Richie’s, and squeezing lightly along his arm.

_Please, Eddie, I just got a fucking handle on this._

“I’m kidding, Eds,” he says.

Eddie doesn’t call him out on the nickname, which does not help the situation. He just says, “Ok,” and then continues analytically feeling up his arm, because he doesn’t trust Richie to not be an idiot about bodily injury. Which is fair.

“You’re fine, baby,” he says, and Richie feels every hair on the back of his neck stand straight for about 3 seconds, before realising what Eddie means is, _You’re fine, you massive baby._ _Which-yep, that’s not actually that much better._

Richie’s jeans are not having a good time. When and why did he start wearing tight jeans? Dd Bev talk him into it?

“I won,” Eddie says, “so I get to choose what we watch.” And Richie does not remember that being part of the deal, but he also has bigger fish to fry right now.

Eddie wheels himself over to the couch and then turns and looks at Richie. “A little help?”

_Pomeranians. Bev’s bloody bathroom. Henry Bowers’ mullet._

“Give me a minute. I need to stew in the shame of my defeat.”

A little furrow appears in Eddie’s brow. “Ok, Mr Fragile Masculinity, I’m sorry if I bruised your ego-”

“Also my hand,” Richie interjects.

“-but now you get to reaffirm your own machismo by carrying me around. Happy?”

_Derry’s premier pharmacist. Connor Bowers. The shrieks of Sonia Kaspbrak._

“Thrilled,” says Richie, standing up and making his way over. If he was at subway creep levels before, now he’s at more of a _Maybe it’s just the shape of his jeans?_ stage. _Thank Christ for trauma, right?_

He lifts Eddie, reciting his shopping list in his head. It’s one of the tricks he came up with when he realised part of them being friends would have to involve Eddie’s face 3 inches from his.

“ _Thank you_ ,” says Eddie, when he lands on the sofa. “Jesus. I could have lifted myself by the time you got over here.”

Richie very carefully does not think about Eddie lifting his ( _admittedly, tiny_ ) body weight, and instead curls up on the other end of the couch.

He can feel Eddie’s eyes on him. He’s probably being suspect, because even when they don’t sit next to each other, Richie always positions himself to be within slapping distance.

“What do you wanna watch?” he asks quickly.

“You choose,” says Eddie, throwing the remote at his chest.

Richie bites down on a smile, feeling his heart pump warm blood. Eddie clearly thinks _something’s_ wrong, and his comforting tactics have not changed at all in the last 27 years. All kind gestures, performed as angrily as possible.

He responds the only way he knows how.

“…I wanna watch _Jackass._ ”

“No you don’t,” says Eddie. “You just want to stress me out.”

“You can hold my hand during the scary bits,” he says, as Eddie flips him the bird.

“Fine,” Eddie says eventually, which means he’s either

  1. More worried about Richie than he thought
  2. Calling his bluff



“…I don’t want to watch _Jackass_ ,” Richie admits, noting the triumphant little smirk on Eddie’s face.

It’s quickly trained into an expression of annoyance. “Oh my God. Bake-Off?”

“Ok,” says Richie. He stretches out to kick at Eddie’s thighs.

“Nerve damage doesn’t make that any less annoying, dipshit. I can still feel the vibrations.”

Richie’s suddenly knee-deep in a panicky montage of every time he’s slyly nudged his foot against Eddie’s in the last 6 months.

He blusters through it, kicking Eddie’s arm instead. “Is this less annoying?”

Eddie grabs his ankle, pulling it down to rest on the sofa. He leaves his thin fingers wrapped around it while he reaches for the remote.

Richie watches a drop of sweat roll down his ankle, and settles in for a long night.

It starts storming sometime around 7, so Eddie makes an executive decision that Richie is going to stay the night. Richie acquiesces, although he does question whether Eddie’s going to find PJs that fit.

Eddie searches his drawers, certain that he is not, while Richie putters around his bedroom.

“What’s this?”

Eddie turns around to see Richie holding up his mechanical hand, the product of a children’s Meccano set, and an hour and a half of problem solving fervour.

“It’s just one of those grabber things. Like the ones you used to annoy people with when we went to Derry fairs.”

“What do you use it for? Sex? You can tell me if it’s a sex toy.”

“You think everything I own is a sex toy.”

“Because I’ve watched enough movies to know that it’s the businessmen with boring-ass jobs who own secret sex dungeons.”

“Oh, you know that from all the _movies_ you watch,” Eddie says dubiously as Richie’s mouth quirks into a lopsided grin.

“Wait,” Eddie says, realisation trickling in. “Are you talking about _50 Shades_? Richie, please don’t tell me you watched that. That’s so much worse than porn.”

Richie’s grin widens. “It was for work! I need to keep up with the zeitgeist! Please don’t punish me, Officer Kaspbrak!”

“Oh, that is _so_ not funny,” Eddie says, death glaring at him, flush riding up his arms.

“My inner goddess says otherwise.”

“Give me my fucking hand,” Eddie says, reaching for it as Richie holds it up.

“Tell me what it’s for!”

Eddie sighs. “It’s for cleaning the fans. And grabbing things. On…high shelves.”

Eddie can see the barely restrained smile on Richie’s face.

“Mm. And I’m guessing you made this…20, 30 years ago? When you realised you were never getting any taller?”

“How are you a comedian when you’ve never made a funny joke?”

“I don’t make them for free, Eddie. Pay me the big bucks and the jokes will improve.”

“Hard pass.”

Eddie swats at Richie, who is now trying to grab his cheeks with the mechanical hand.

“You could fix anything when we were kids,” he says thoughtfully. “My Gameboy. Bev’s TV. I remember my Walkman was acting up, and you just…glared it into submission.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “What’s your point?”

“My point is you have a knack for this shit! You know, if you ever decide to leave the Risky Business business, you could totally have a career as a repairman. Even an engineer.”

“How exactly am I gonna get behind a TV?”

“Other things need repairing, Eddie. Watches. Phones. Computers. Coffee machines.”

“If I think about it, will you stop listing off objects?”

“…Sex toys.”

“Okay. Thank you for that.”

Eddie doesn’t think he’s at an upend-your-professional-life stage yet. But _fuck,_ it feels good to have options. It feels good to even _want_ to have options, so far removed from how he felt a year ago, from _get through the fucking day_ mode.

Even distant from how he felt 6 months back, letting himself drift and trying to soak in the small pleasures.

Now, he’s realising, there are things he wants to do.

…There are _people_ he wants to do.

_Ok, one person._

And with every passing day, he feels more and more inclined to just fucking go for it.


	16. Chapter 16

Richie’s meeting him after work for an early dinner.

Richie’s the only other New Yorker Eddie knows who doesn’t have a fervent stance against eating dinner at 5:30.

Eddie loves him for it.

Ok, maybe not just for that. 

But whenever he tries to parse why he loves Richie, it gets a little paradoxical. Every little thing seems so integral – the dumb nicknames, the even dumber T-shirts. The fact that he tried to befriend a subway rat. And the fact that he let Eddie drag him along to get tested for rabies afterwards.

But he thinks he could subtract all of that without diminishing his feelings one iota.

Which is exactly the problem.

Eddie had suggested dinner at 5:30, didn’t want to make his way home only to have to head out later, had a whole argument cued up to convince Richie and Richie had just agreed. And he’d realised he would’ve loved Richie for arguing, and loved Richie for acquiescing, and loved Richie for calling him a pensioner, and it’s hard to think of a way out of being in love when Richie can’t really make a wrong move.

So he’s going to say something. Besides, he’s been seeing the world through clearer lenses, lately. And all of Richie’s looks seem a little less platonic, and a little more longing. He’s been testing the waters. Noticing Richie squirm in ways that seem harder and harder to explain away.

And he’s going to be ok. If he’s wrong, and Richie never wants to see him again – it’s going to fucking ache for a while, maybe forever – but why did he try so hard to do this on his own, hire his own help, work out his full capacity, if he’s still going to be so fucking dependent on everyone else?

Richie’s looking for yet another game on his phone when it lights up with a text from Eddie.

_Sorry. Meeting running late. He says we’re going to be another 10 minutes :/_

Richie turns, flips the bird at the building behind him, and responds, _No problem!!!_

He almost drops the phone when it starts buzzing.

“Hey,” Bev says when Richie picks up. “Are you free tonight?”

“As much as I would love to have a clandestine affair with the beautiful Bev Marsh, I’m getting dinner with Eddie.”

“Dinner alone with Eddie? In a nice restaurant?”

“Yeah,” Richie says. “A _friendly_ dinner. _Friends_ are what he needs right now.”

“I thought he didn’t need anyone,” Beverly says. “I don’t know if you noticed, but you’ve spent the last year talking about how stubborn and independent and capable he is.”

 _Sneaky_.

“Well he _wants_ friends. If only to reach the cobwebs in the ceiling corners.”

“Have you asked him what he wants?”

“Well he definitely doesn’t want a boyfriend. He’s like, actively resistant to men flirting.”

“Richie,” Bev says. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re being deliberately obtuse.”

“Because what you’re implying is insane! What, he’s _saving_ himself for me?”

“Have _you_ been dating?”

Richie opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “I plead the fifth.”

Beverly grins. “Oh, so _you’re_ saving yourself for _him_.”

“Entirely different situations,” Richie says. “I’ve…dipped my toe in the pond before. He has not.”

“Cause he wants to dip his toe in _your_ pond.”

“That’s _disgusting_ ,” Richie says. “I’m so proud.”

“Learnt from the best.” Bev hesitates. “Look, Richie, I know you’re worried he’s going to say no, but-”

“And what if he says yes?” Richie asks. “The way he talks about dating, it’s like he’s given up on it altogether. Like he doesn’t have _options._ And I can’t be the last-ditch effort. You _know_ I’d do almost anything, but I can’t be the guy he fucks to get back on his feet. I just can’t.”

There’s silence from Bev. Then Richie hears the edge of an inhale, and knows, instantly, that it’s not from her end. Knows, instantly, that he’s fucked up.

He makes himself turn around, sees Eddie sitting there. All contradictions -- mouth set like plaster, eyes wide and injured, teetering on a tightrope between tears and anger.

He hears a car in the street behind them honk its horn, over and over. _Beep fucking beep, Richie. Beep fucking beep._

Eddie breathes in sharply. “I never-I _never_ asked for that.”

“I know,” Richie says quietly, mentally flipping through ways he can explain this away without mentioning the L word. “Eds, I-”

His brows plunge, eyes narrowing. “Don’t _call_ me that.”

_He pushed in the right direction, at least. He hates seeing Eddie cry._

He starts again. “Eddie-”

“No. I don’t need you to fix this,” Eddie spits. “Fuck you and your fucking saviour complex.”

He’s gone before Richie can move.

Richie’s not going to cry. He’s not going to cry because he has a profile, and probably the only thing that could make Eddie hate him even more right now is a flagrantly inaccurate Perez Hilton special. _Lovers’ Spat Leaves Richie Tozier an Alex Mack Puddle._

He finds a patch of ground he can sit on, up against the wall. Covered in hardened gum and all sorts of things Eddie would hate. Remembers the phone, and absently puts it up to his ear.

“Richie? You still there?”

“Bevvie.” He’s not crying. He sounds like he’s on elephant tranquilisers, but that doesn’t mean he’s crying.

“Richie, honey, what happened?”

“So,” he says with a watery laugh. “Looks like I’m free tonight after all. Did your plans involve alcohol?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW, I might not be able to update for a couple weeks. I'm sorry for hiatusing at the angstiest moment, but I'll be back!


	17. Chapter 17

Richie’s going to tell him everything. He’s fucked things up so badly that he can’t imagine any truths Eddie might learn could fuck them up anymore.

The problem is getting Eddie to talk to him. He’s not answering Richie’s calls, and Richie thinks a Messenger love confession should be considered a last resort.

Then the Benverly wedding invite arrives, replete with glitter.

His first feeling is a deep dread about being surrounded by emblems of love right now. His second is an overwhelming guilt that he’s not happier about his friends’ nuptials. But it dips right back into hope when he realises, _Eddie will be there._

Sure, maybe sorting out your social psychodramas at your friend’s wedding is a messy bitch move. But Richie _is_ a messy bitch.

Richie hangs around outside the venue. It’s obnoxiously modern in a way that Ben probably creamed himself over. It makes Richie itch. He likes small and comfy.

He’s waiting for Eddie. Eddie always turns up too early, so Richie turned up _way_ too fucking early.

When he shows up, Eddie _does_ look surprised to see him. And not too pleased.

But Eddie acknowledges him, which is something. They make polite small talk, as if they’re step-cousins at a family reunion and not people with several decades of history between them.

Richie follows him into the elevator, wondering how the fuck he’s going to segue from _this_ to _Hey, I’m in love with you._

Richie looks at him. He looks good, in his dark suit and powder blue button-up. He also looks a little intimidating.

Richie’s going to tell him. Any minute now. He just needs a second to get his thoughts together.

Then a creaking sound cuts through the air. The elevator stops, but the doors don’t open.

Eddie looks at him, now with fear-stricken eyes.

“It’s ok,” Richie says, although he doesn’t have a great feeling about this. “Happens all the time.”

“Oh my God.”

Richie’s feeling more worried about the way Eddie’s breaths are shrinking than their current confinement. “Hey,” he says, aiming for distraction, and feeling certain the only way he’s gonna get there is through annoyance. “This is a good opportunity to air dirty laundry. You know, if you still wanna scream at me, locked in a soundproof box seems like as good a place as any.”

“I don’t want to scream at you,” Eddie says in a rushed breath out.

This should engender some relief, but Richie thinks the _reason_ for this sudden wave of forgiveness is probably a certainty that they’re going to die within the next half-hour.

Still, probably good to keep Eddie talking.

“You sure? You seemed pretty angry. Uh. Before.”

“Well _yeah_ ,” Eddie says, irritated face back on, a good sign. “Everything you said…It fucking sucked to hear, but I can’t really stay mad at you for being presumptuous when-I mean. They were the right assumptions.”

“Oh.” Richie chokes out. He can only think of one thing that might mean. So he tries to think of another explanation.

“I mean,” Eddie continues, picking up pace, annoyed, “it’s not like I wanted a _pity fuck_ -”

“No,” Richie babbles urgently, trying to keep up with the left turns in this conversation, “Jesus, I know that, I was scared, and it was an excuse, and-I don’t know, Bev says I tend to point out all the fire exits before I make a move on a guy-”

Eddie’s eyebrows land somewhere near his hairline. “Before- _What?_ ”

“Oh, and don’t be angry at Bev for all of this. She just wanted me to get my shit together.”

“I’m _not_ angry at _Bev_ ,” Eddie says, in a tone that suggests he _is_ angry at Richie. But when Richie looks at him, his mouth is in a tug-of-war, corners slowly pulling up, and it makes Richie want to be brave. Confessing-while-trapped-in-a-fucking-metal-box brave.

“So.” He swallows _._ “Uh. Mixed messages, I know. But the gist is that. I love you?”

Eddie’s smile grows. “You’re the most frustrating person I know.”

“I’m the most frustrating person most people know.”

“I wanna kiss you,” Eddie says, and Richie feels like he got a Nyquil injection straight into his spinal cord, legs going from solid to liquid, brain pleasantly numbed.

It’s awkward. Richie has to crouch, and Eddie has to lean halfway out of his chair, and Richie’s calves are screaming, and he regrets nothing.

But Eddie makes a noise of frustration. “I want-” and he doesn’t have to finish the sentence, because Richie wants too.

“I could-” Richie mimes straddling his wheelchair.

“Don’t break my fucking chair,” Eddie says, elevator woes forgotten.

“ _Eddie_ , are you implying I’m overweight?”

“I’m implying that you’re seven fucking feet of man.” He pauses, face flushing. “That didn’t come out right.”

“It sounded right,” Richie says, deliriously happy.

Richie knows that Eddie isn’t going to take kindly to lying on an elevator floor, so he thinks of other possibilities.

“I have an idea. It might be a little tricky, but I think my seven fucking feet of buff man meat should be able to pull it off.”

Eddie makes a noise of disgust.

The elevator doors do, eventually, open.

Ben’s standing outside, in a tux. Seeing Eddie, leaning up against the wall, Richie supporting him, his eyes light up. “Eddie! You can w-”

“No,” Eddie and Richie say simultaneously. Eddie huffs a slightly hysterical laugh into Richie’s shoulder.

“Oh,” says Ben, disappointed. Then, eyes lighting up again, “Oh. So either this is a pat-down, or-”

“Is that what you and Bev call it?” Richie asks. Eddie wheezes another laugh, whacking his arm, and Richie wants to press another dozen kisses against his neck.

Ben just smiles good-naturedly. “I’ll, um, leave you guys to it. We can delay the ceremony another 2 minutes.”

“Could you not tell Bev?” Richie asks. “I think she’s gonna have a lot to say about the fact that we waited until her wedding.”

“Promise,” Ben says solemnly, then gives them a grin before he heads off.

Richie feels the icy tip of Eddie’s nose brush his cheek.

“Get me out of this fucking elevator, Richie.”

Richie beams, and takes him into his arms.

“Yes, Officer Kaspbrak. Of course, Officer Kaspbrak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At novella length, I'm pretty sure this is the longest thing I've ever written. So thanks for sticking with it!


End file.
